


Beautiful World

by Lissadiane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Deals with cutting, Depression, Harry Dies, M/M, Main Character Death, Not A Happy Ending, Self Harm, he stays dead, seriously, written a long long time ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-11-02 09:54:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 70,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20705891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/pseuds/Lissadiane
Summary: Harry finds out he's going to die on his 16th birthday. He embarks on a journey of self-destructive behaviour and drags Draco along for the ride. Written in, what, 2002? It was a long time ago.





	Beautiful World

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [El mundo es hermoso](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498558) by [JennVilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennVilla/pseuds/JennVilla)

> Here it is! I've received some requests to post my Harry Potter fics on AO3, and tragically -- this is the only one I could find. If anyone has any of the others and wants to share them with me, I would love to post them. Unfortunately, Fictionalley has gone away and I wrote them so long ago, I no longer have the files. The Wayback Machine gets stuck on the 'are you 17?' page. I did manage to save Ooh Something Shiny, apparently my only non-restricted fic, but I don't know if the world needs to have a sentient bean bag chair inflicted upon them again.
> 
> I wrote this fic when I was 20 years old, when I was in a fucked up place mentally, when I was just coming to a place where I didn't cut myself on purpose, and right after I'd found out that my grandmother was going to die. It was pretty much the first time I'd been faced with the death of someone I knew and loved, and I just couldn't comprehend how death could be a real thing, and my brain just latched onto the idea of how we all know that everyone of us is going to die, and even so, we're all so shocked when it happens.
> 
> The document title for this fic while I wrote it was harrydies.doc. He dies in the end. Back when I wrote the fic, I didn't warn people about that as clearly as I should have. So here's your warning. It's a thing. Harry's gonna die. 
> 
> You probably already know that.

**Title:** Beautiful World, Chapter 1  
**Author:** [Cinnamon](mailto:shadowmysts@hotmail.com)  
**Pairing:** Harry/Draco  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** Draco is afraid of living and Harry is afraid of dying, but sometimes the choice isn't offered. Draco's got to learn what it is to really live, while showing Harry how beautiful the world really is when you're not too scared to see it.  
**Author's Notes:** I wasn't going to do another H/D, but this one sort of tackled me while I was working on other things. It was meant to be a one shot, but turned into something longer. It's not like I have a choice in these things. Anyway, dedicated to my betas, with much love and worshipping.

While he was sleeping, Harry Potter decided to die. It wasn't a conscious decision so much as the little boy who lived deep inside his inner most self, who had curled up there with a rather bedraggled blankie and an old teddy bear long ago, closing his tired green eyes and letting go. He'd been living there, deep inside Harry's soul, since the first day his uncle had closed the door of the cupboard on Little Harry's bright little boy face, casting his brilliant green eyes in shadow. Not an imaginary friend, or even an imaginary part of himself, but all those secret dreams and wishes of childhood that Harry hadn't ever admitted out loud (Christmases and candy floss and puppies and ponies and bikes with training wheels). They had to go somewhere, after all, and they had; deep inside where they burned with the faith and hope of a child with an unbreakable spirit.

And then, sometime during Harry's fifth year, the bubble broke, his heart broke, his spirit faltered, and he decided to die.

He woke up that morning and didn't even notice anything had changed, at first. His eyes opened and the ceiling looked the same in the hazy, predawn light. Rolling over, he fought with the covers that had tangled around his legs until his bare feet hit the cold stone floor and he shivered at the contact. He was the first one up, he always was, and Harry mechanically went about gathering up his things and making his way down the stairs to the Gryffindor Boys Bathroom, his glasses still clutched in his hands. After all, there was no point in putting them on until there was something that needed to be seen, and he knew the way to the bathroom in the dark. He dropped his towel and clothing on the floor, turned on the shower, took off his pajamas, and stepped under the hot stream of water.

It felt good, as it always did. It eased away any aches and knots that had developed in his muscles, it slicked down his wild hair, it disguised any tears that might have been forced from his sleepy eyes.

Minutes later, he stepped from the shower and into the steamy bathroom, pushing his dripping hair back out of his eyes and wrapping the towel around his waist tightly. He didn't bother to towel off, he rarely did. He liked feeling the water running down his body, the way the little streams moved over his skin and his muscles, dripped from his hair and off the end of his nose.

His glasses were by the sink and he put them on, wiping the steam from them with his fingertips, glancing up and squinting through the mist at the mirror, which was covered in a thick fog. He wiped it with his fist, and then… Then Harry knew that something inside him had changed.

He stared for a long, long while at the alien face that stared blankly back at him. It was still his nose, his mouth, his scar. Still his teeth and his ears and his skin. But at the same time, it was like someone else had crawled inside of them all, was working his jaw muscles, his tongue. They all seemed to move without his input. But even that was not what held Harry transfixed.

It was his eyes. They were different. Still huge, still framed by his glasses, still green with lighter flecks near the irises. But they were…flat. Empty.

Something inside Harry had died. Some light that had been bright, had glittered, and had started to fade sometime around the end of his fourth year. And now it was gone.

Harry wasn't Harry any longer, Harry was Harry's Body with someone else in control while Harry sat back and watched with a somewhat vague sort of bemusement.

There was a knock on the door and Harry jumped a little and turned. "Seamus?" he called, knowing that it would be him. Seamus always got up twenty minutes after Harry, it was a ‘we've all got to share the shower and may as well get used to it' ritual. Much less chaotic and cruel then the girls, who still worked under the ‘first come first served' principle.

"Harry?" Seamus replied in a mocking sort of tone, knocking again. Dean would be down in twenty minutes and Seamus hated it when Harry was slow.

He gathered his things and opened the door, waiting for Seamus to comment on his eyes, how they had changed. Seamus grinned in a sleepy sort of way, and dashed past, shoving Harry into the hall in a friendly sort of fashion, and slamming the door behind him.

"No, I don't think so," Harry whispered, replying to Seamus' question. No, he wasn't Harry at all.

"Hello, Harry, you're running a little late today," Hermione greeted from the common room where she sat finishing her charms assignment. She'd showered earlier and now her hair was drying, and Harry watched the firelight turn odd wisps of it a fiery sort of auburn colour. "Harry? …_Harry_."

He blinked, startled, and looked up at her. "What?"

"Are you alright? You were just…staring at me."

Not _at_ her. At the colours in her hair. Infinitely more interesting. "I was running a little late," Harry echoed, to prove that he had been paying attention. "I'm never late, except for class."

"Exactly," she said, frowning in confusion. "Are you alright?"

"Same as always," he lied faintly. "And wrapped in a towel." With that, he excused himself and went up the stairs to his dorm.

The day passed somewhat in a blur. That wasn't anything strange, really, because all the days had begun to blend together for Harry. Wake up, eat breakfast, go to class, eat lunch, go to class, go to Quidditch practice, eat dinner, do homework, sleep, rinse, repeat as necessary.

The only thing remarkable about this day at all was that Harry nearly died three times. The first was in Transfiguration class, where they were attempting to change their mice into parrots and Harry had somehow managed to get it wrong. Professor McGonagall had barely managed to rescue him from being eaten by the resulting creature Harry had created. Later, in Care of Magical Creatures, he'd somehow fallen off the fence they'd been instructed to sit on while watching as Hagrid attempted to calm a small herd of Huffalumps, which had then begun stampeding, nearly trampling him. The third near-death experience occurred during Quidditch practice, when Harry had somehow managed to… fly directly into a Bludger. A Bludger that hadn't been moving.

His stomach still bore that bruise the next morning, as Harry lay awake in his bed, having woken up even earlier than usual and not quite seeing the point to getting out of bed.

He did, of course, because it would not do to be late for the second day in a row. He showered, though this time his eyes avoided the steamy mirror, and just as Seamus came down the stairs, Harry left the bathroom, dressed and groomed. Hermione glanced at her watch as he strode into the common room and then smiled at him. Her hair was drying again and Harry tilted his head a bit and smiled back, watching prisms of light dance in her hair.

"Finished all yesterday's homework?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, after a short pause. There was always a pause between their questions and his answers these days.

"Good. I suspect Ron didn't finish his Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, honestly, he kept giving me shifty sort of stares last night as he scribbled the last few lines of his scroll."

"He'll do fine. Always does," Harry answered absently, sitting at the table near the wall that bore a chess set. The game had already been set up, the pieces sleeping on their squares. They woke up with a start when he sat down, the white side smiling sleepily up at him, the black side scowling at having had their sleep disturbed. Harry began a game against himself.

He forgot the charm to repel minor fire demons in Defense Against the Dark Arts (and was nearly roasted alive), almost fell down the ladder leading to Divination, and choked during lunch.

"Jeez, Harry," Ron said, after the choking incident had been averted by an anti-choking charm Hermione had learned in Beginners Medimagic. "You'd almost think you had a death wish or something."

"Or something," Harry agreed quietly, though he really hadn't heard Ron's statement. The whole Hall had turned to look when he'd started to choke, and he couldn't even muster the energy to look embarrassed. It would have been a fitting way to go, after all. The-Boy-Who-Lived Choked On A Carrot and Died.

The next morning, Harry woke early and made his way to the bathroom, same as every other day, except it was a little bit colder in the tower than usual. He closed and locked the door, put his things down, and looked in the mirror, though he avoided meeting his own gaze. Instead, he ran his hand down his forehead and over his nose, down to his lips, tracing them with his nail. He'd never been kissed and didn't particularly care. It seemed a rather messy, pointless pastime. He moved his hand down, over his chin, and then up to his cheek. It was a little rough, he'd have to shave. He didn't have to shave every day yet, not like Seamus did, but he had to shave more than Ron and Neville, and that was good enough. It wasn't like he was in a race to grow up anyway.

He showered, and the water was colder than usual. The hot water wasn't working right, so it was a quick shower, and he shivered as he wrapped the towel around his waist and rubbed the steam off the mirror. He put on his glasses. A quick flash of green and he forced himself to break eye contact with his reflection. It unnerved him.

He'd shaved enough by now that he wasn't nervous and awkward about it. Smooth strokes, taking away the soap and the hair, soothing strokes. The rhythmic stroking lulled him into a strange sort of relaxation and Harry let his eyes close.

The rhythm changed without warning, there was a shift in the air, a shift in his muscles, a shift of hand, something. The razor bit into the skin in the side of his neck, deeply.

Hissing at the sudden sting, Harry dropped the razor and turned on the cold water, washing soap out of the cut. Then, he stared at his reflection. Water has a strange way of making blood look fake. They don't seem to mix right away, there's a sort of resistance to blood, as if it's too thick, as if it's oil. Instead, the blood acts like a crimson ribbon. Twisting and turning, sending out little veins, like the blood itself is bleeding, running through veins, propelled by a beating heart, even as it leaked out and ran down his wet skin.

He shook himself and grabbed a face cloth, pressing it to the wound. He could feel his pulse beating right under the towel, right near the wound, under his skin. He'd almost slashed his own throat.

"Yikes," was all he could think of to whisper, as he pulled out his wand and said a simple healing spell. The wound closed and he cleaned up the blood before he finished shaving.

As he walked up the stairs, Seamus opened the bathroom door and called, "Harry? Harry, are you alright? There's blood all over the sink…"

Harry didn't reply.

***

Hermione was on one side, Ron on the other, and they were arguing over Harry's head about something Harry didn't bother to listen to. They'd been doing that all year, arguing over his head. Ron had always been taller than Harry, and Hermione had grown a lot over the summer. Now she was tall, though her hair was still bushy and she was still very skinny. Harry had hardly grown at all. Still small, slight, pale, with wild dark hair, and enough facial hair to merit shaving once a week. But he didn't care. He didn't care about much, really.

Including Potions, which was where they were walking to the second time Harry nearly died that day. They were walking down a flight of stairs when it started to change, swinging to the left. Hermione and Ron, used to this behavior by now, stopped and continued their argument standing still, waiting patiently for the stairs to come to a stop.

Harry didn't notice, and nearly walked right off the end.

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked, and his stride faltered as he glanced over his shoulder.

"What?"

"Watch it! The stairs are moving."

"Oh." He glanced around, vaguely surprised. Then he glanced down and saw that one more step would have sent him over the edge. Oh.

"Didn't you notice, Harry?" Ron asked, frowning, as the staircase stopped changing and they continued on their way.

"You nearly died, Harry!" Hermione cried.

"At least dying would be real," Harry mumbled, too quietly for her to hear.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Hermione worried, touching his arm hesitantly.

"One more today and I'll be fine," he mumbled.

"One more what?" asked Ron.

Harry didn't reply. One more brush with death, of course. Because Harry had by now noticed that they were coming three a day. And this was the third day. Maybe the third time on the third day would have some sort of significance, and maybe he'd actually die.

Strangely, Harry smiled for the first time that day at the prospect.

Three times the charm, after all.

"This," Snape said, moments later, as he slammed a large jar full of olive green pickling fluid on his desk, "is a flesh eating slug. Dead, of course." There was a chorus of ‘eews' from the class, even a few Slytherins looking ill at the sight of the slug, which was roughly the size of one of Harry's trainers, a bloated sort of black colour with a sheen of yellowy green. Its underside was pressed against the side of the jar and they could see its mouth, a perfectly round hole rimmed with three rows of needle-like teeth meant to rip flesh from bones. "Quite nasty creatures, and quite common. Flesh eating slug repellent is quite useful for keeping them away, but it's useless in getting rid of them once they're already present. Today, you will learn to brew flesh eating slug pesticide."

He always said it that way. Today you will learn. Not today I will teach you, or today you will attempt to brew. It was always you _will_ learn. Or I will punish you.

He explained the potion's properties (instant death to any slug it touches) and described the properties of each of the ingredients, ending his lecture with, "You are brewing the condensed form, if this potion were to actually be used, it would be mixed one part to four water. It is quite toxic, so kindly refrain from drinking it. Anyone who loses their Pesker Pod will also lose one hundred house points. Get to work."

Hermione fetched all of their ingredients while Ron and Harry set up their cauldrons. They were to brew the potion alone as Snape had stopped assigning pair work at the beginning of fifth year.

A few minutes later, as Harry set the first few ingredients to boil, Hermione and Ron were arguing again. Harry wasn't listening. Well, he wasn't aware that he was listening. However, that little part of him that wanted to die must have been.

"A hundred points?" Ron scoffed. "For losing a Pester Pod?" He waved the pod in question about as he spoke.

"It's Pesker Pod," Hermione corrected, rescuing Ron's. "And it's a fair punishment. These are very rare, and very valuable. Besides, all the venom in the potion comes from the pod. One pod, if used in a more advanced and deadly potion, can kill an entire army, if we lose our pod, someone else could find it and use it for something worse than killing slugs."

"Wow, Hermione, you actually condone the murder of innocent slugs?" Ron smirked.

She grew sulky. "Do shut up, Ron." Harry stirred his potion carefully, laying out his ingredients in the order that he'd need to add them so that he wouldn't have to look at the instructions anymore. He folded them up carefully and watched the liquid in the cauldron. Every time it changed colours, he added the next ingredient, until he'd added them all. The potion had turned from black to a strange, off-white sort of colour.

"Remember," Snape said from his desk as he watched. "The end result should be opaque and give off a faint scent vaguely reminiscent of black licorice."

Harry poured about a cup of his potion into a glass tube and held it up to his nose, sniffing cautiously. It certainly smelled, though he worried that the scent was more like petrol than licorice. Frowning, he lifted the tube to the light and squinted up at it, checking if light could filter through. Opaque meant that all light would be prevented from passing through the cloudy liquid.

Tilting his head a bit and holding the tube up to the light, Harry felt eyes on him. Someone was looking at him.

No one had really looked at Harry in days. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he shivered, his eyes siding away from the swirling liquid and flickering lower, towards the eyes that watched him.

Draco Malfoy. Holding two Pesker Pods and smirking that smug smirk he'd always had, his eyebrows raised in challenge, his lips twisted, his gray eyes… _glowing_.

Harry's eyes didn't glow that way anymore.

Harry opened his lips, licked them, opened them further, as if to speak.

He would never get the chance to know what on earth he planned to say, for at that moment, Neville's cauldron blew up, sending the other boy smashing into Harry's chair, jolting him badly, and causing him to pour the tube of flesh eating slug poison onto his upturned face, and into his open mouth.

It burned, and he began to choke, coughing as he dropped the tube and it shattered.

Hermione was the first to scream. "You've poisoned him! He's poisoned! Harry's dying!"

The shrieks after that grew loud and rabid, wild, and Harry's heart rate quickened as he started panting with excitement — no, panic. Certainly panic. Who would be excited at the prospect of their own death by slug poison?

But his breathing sped up and it went to his head, making him dizzy, and Harry slumped to the floor, gasping and choking, his eyes wide, a small smile on his lips.

The Gryffindors were crowded around in panic, and Snape was shouting. He was holding what must have been the antidote in one hand, but the hysterical Gryffindors wouldn't let him through.

"I'm dying," Harry said out loud, rather bemusedly. "I'm dying."

"You're not." Cold voice, colder hands, touching Harry's hand. He blinked and forced himself to focus. Draco Malfoy was bending over him.

Already dead and gone to hell then, because for one frightful instance, Harry though that Draco was going to kiss him.

Draco looked very pissed off, really. Annoyed. And coldly amused all at once. "Damn it, Potter, save poisoning yourself until I haven't sabotaged your potion." And then Draco was gone and Harry realized that he hadn't been holding his hand after all. Draco had been putting something in it.

With the air of one about to die and resigned to whatever gift Draco had given him to celebrate his passing, Harry opened his hand.

It was his Pesker Pod. Draco had stolen it in an attempt to take one hundred points from Gryffindor, and in doing so, had saved Harry's life.

The irony of it made Harry laugh.

***

The next day dawned brilliantly sunny, the kind that was almost like a guilty pleasure. So perfect that it can't possibly exist without the threat of a wicked springtime thunderstorm sometime in the near future, when the heat cracks. Harry woke up sticky with sweat, his pajamas tangled around him, stuck to him.

He deliberately turned the shower as cold as it would go, driving the sweat from his skin. Then, clean and shivering, he combed his hair and dressed, not glancing in the mirror at all. He knew his eyes would still be flat and dull, his face almost waxy, like the muscles that commanded his smiles and his frowns had just given up, stopped responding to his commands. Or maybe he'd just stopped trying to command them.

Ron was up, Hermione had promised to help him finish up his Defense Against The Dark Arts assignment. Glancing at Harry as Hermione read over his latest offering for a concluding paragraph, Ron said, "You tossed and turned all night, Harry. Bad dreams?"

Harry frowned. "I don't think I dream anymore."

"You've always dreamed. And they usually come true. What changed?" Hermione asked.

"I did," Harry replied. He didn't elaborate when she questioned him and she gave up far too easily. Homework was a distraction of course. With Hermione, it was always a priority.

They went to breakfast together and Harry made a vague attempt to involve himself in the conversations around him, but he didn't much care for them, or anything really. That is, until a group of Slytherins caused a disturbance by arriving late, Draco leading them. Even then, his interest was brief, his eyes flicking up towards the door and then away a second later. But if anyone had cared enough to look and cared enough to actually see, they may have seen that for half a second at least, Harry's eyes…well, they glowed. Just a little bit.

Harry's first class that day was Divination, and as he and Ron made their way there, Harry was lost. Not physically lost, not even lost in thought, just lost inside himself, in the strange numb darkness that had fallen over him sometime in his sleep a few nights before. If he had the strength, he would have wondered about this darkness. If he had the courage, even. But he didn't. One thing few people ever understood about Harry was that he never chose to be a hero, he was chosen for the role. Courage held by those with no other choice than to be brave is not a characteristic they can claim as their own but one they borrow when the situation demands it.

Almost inaudible above Ron's chatter, Harry became distantly aware of a set of running footsteps coming quickly down a corridor that would intersect perpendicularly with the one he was walking down. He wasn't deeply concerned and did nothing to alter his trajectory, so Draco, who was the one speeding down the hall, could not even give the excuse that it was not him, but the sound of his approach, that saved Harry's life that morning. It was not the sound that turned Harry from his path, because Harry didn't care enough about it to react, other than to raise his eyes and narrow them slightly.

Draco barreled around the corner just as something to the right creaked painfully—the sound of metal fatigue finally overcoming its molecular bonds. The nails that held the suit of armor against the wall where Harry was standing, gave way with a terrible screech.

The armor was huge, and at least six times as heavy as Harry himself, and would doubtlessly have hurt him very much, if not crushed him. He felt nothing more than a brush of cold air as it fell, however, easily over shadowed by the sudden shock to his system when Draco Malfoy slammed into him and knock him down, out of the path of falling armor.

Inertia sent Draco tumbling to the ground after Harry and flipping over him, rolling a few feet away. For a few long minutes, Harry didn't understand what had happened, and then Ron's excited shouting registered.

"God, Harry! That armor nearly fell on you! If Malfoy hadn't run into you —" Sudden suspicion crowded Ron's voice. "Just what were you doing, running through these halls, Malfoy?" he asked, inspecting the armor, trying to find out why it had fallen.

No reason, really, besides old nails and old metal that had for some reason chosen that moment to let go.

But Malfoy, who, Harry decided, after sitting up and looking at him, looked rather winded and startled himself, offered no snappy defense. Instead, he merely scowled and snarled, "I was late for class, Weasley."

Ron decided to let go of his suspicions that the whole thing had been a set up. After all, how likely was it, really, that Malfoy had caused the armor to fall and then felt guilty and saved Harry's life? Had Harry been hurt, then Ron would have had reason to pound Draco into a bloody pulp. As it was, he merely cried, "Cripes, Harry! He saved your life!"

Before Harry managed to get to his feet, Draco had walked away, limping a little, and swearing savagely at once again having accidentally saved Harry Potter from certain death.

It was not to end there, however. Harry had chalked the armor incident up to another one of the strange coincidental near death experiences by lunchtime and had done his best to forget it. There had been no others as of yet, sparing a strange incident in Care of Magical Creatures in which Millicent Bulstrode had handed him what appeared to be a badly-rhymed love sonnet. He had read it and screwed his face up in a rather puzzled sort of expression, put it in his pocket and had forgotten it.

Ron was eagerly filling Hermione in on the armor incident while Harry picked at his food. Not feeling particularly hungry, he made his excuses and rose to leave the table.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione cried, almost coyly. "You can't leave that." She was pointing to a cupcake gaudily frosted in Gryffindor colors with ‘Harry' shakily written in green sprinkles. "It's a gift."

He picked it up doubtfully. "Uhh, thanks."

"Don't thank me, it's not from _me_," she said quickly. "It's from… a girl we both know." Ron choked a little and Hermione glared. "Not Ginny. Someone else."

"Oh," Harry said, distractedly, trying to pretend he cared. "Thanks. Really. Umm."

He turned to go, nodding at them, still holding the ugly cupcake. Just as he was slipping through the doors, however, Draco and some other Slytherin fifth years were coming in, and Draco smirked cruelly.

"Pretty cupcake, Potter," he sneered.

Harry glanced from the cupcake to Draco's pale face and back again. "Prettier than you," he lied.

Cocking his head, Draco pretended to look hurt. "Really? Even with the squiggly letters and clashing colours? Wow, Potter, if being a sodding hero brings perks like that, where do I sign up?"

"If being a sodding hero were that easy, Malfoy, I doubt you'd still be a stupid, sneering bully. After all, everyone knows you just do it because you're jealous."

"Of you and your cupcake? Hardly." But Draco looked as if his pride had been ruffled, just a little at least.

Shrugging, Harry frowned. "I don't much care. Have it if you like."

He held it out and Draco reacted without thought, taking it. Their fingertips brushed and their eyes met and Harry's sparkled, for just a second, with some indefinable sort of life that had been missing moments before.

"Draco! Draco, _no_! Don't take it, it's a _Love Cake_!"

They both turned at the same time to see Millicent Bulstrode standing near the Slytherin table, looking panicked. At the same time, both Draco and Harry's eyes slammed together again, furious silver and flat green as understanding hit them both.

A Love Cake baked by the most ineffective witch of Slytherin could hardly have come out the way it was intended, and even so, death was in some ways preferable to falling in love with her. Again, by accident, Draco had saved Harry's life.

He cursed, savagely, threw the cupcake at Goyle, and stalked out of the room.

After Hermione finished begging forgiveness and explaining that Millicent had only said it was a cupcake and had neglected to mention the whole love spell thing, Harry left the Hall as well, oddly resigned to this new game fate seemed to be playing with him.

He kept waiting to nearly die only to be rescued by Draco. All day, in every class, Harry kept watch for the next accident awaiting him. It was something to pass the time, after all, though he supposed paying attention in class would have been better, given that it was almost exam time and all.

By the end of classes, he'd nearly stopped caring. After all, in his advanced state of apathy towards everything and anything, Draco Malfoy hardly rated more than a few hours worth of consideration.

Late that afternoon, as Harry walked about the grounds enjoying the hot day, he watched the Weapons Club practice on the Quidditch Pitch. The club had been formed to train any student in fifth year or higher in the art of weapons and physical fighting, more because that year's new Defense Against The Dark Arts professor was a professionally trained Master of Weapons than anything. Ron had joined, as had most of the boys in Harry's year and a few of the girls, but Harry hadn't been interested. He'd grown up in a Muggle world of movies full of weapons like crossbows, daggers, and bows. He was here to learn magic, not how to shoot a bow. But still, he liked to watch sometimes, and now, as he did so, he was even more pleased with his idea not to join the club. The day was hot enough without having to move overly much, and shooting bows and arrows looked like far too much moving.

He was lying on his back in the grass, his eyes closed, the heat crawling over his skin like warm fingertips, when the crunching of grass under someone's feet disturbed him and he opened his eyes. A second later, he'd sat up, eyes widening.

"Malfoy."

A few feet away, Draco paused, surprised. That was quickly covered up with a sneer and Draco drawled, "Lying here waiting to ambush innocent students, Potter?"

"If there's one thing I know about you, Malfoy, it's that you've never been innocent."

"Then you don't know very much, do you?" Draco turned to go.

"Wait."

He paused and glanced over his shoulder, the glare of sun off his hair hurting Harry's eyes as Harry tried frantically to remember why he'd made him wait at all. "Well, Potter? If you've got something to say, say it already. It's bloody hot out here, I want to go in."

Harry couldn't think of a thing to say. He didn't have to, honestly, because at that moment, one of the fifth year Hufflepuffs on the pitch slipped as they released an arrow, the bow turning sharply upwards, arrow arcing high. Neither saw it as it sped towards them, until a second before it embedded itself in Draco's arm. Had it been a fraction lower or Draco's arm not been there, it would have hit Harry right between the eyes.

What happened next was too fast even for Harry to register, and the next thing he knew, Draco was on his back, blood pouring from the wound, an arrow still jutting from his upper arm. The whole weapons club was running towards them but they seemed to be coming in slow motion, and Harry was kneeling beside Draco, his shadow blocking out the sun.

For the first time since Harry and Draco had been in the forest together as first years, terror had made Draco's eyes nearly more black than silver. "How… how bad is it?" he whispered, staring up at Harry.

Harry stared at the arrow. "Not so bad."

"Am I dying?"

"I don't think so."

"Good. Because if I died for you, Potter, I'd haunt you forever."

Harry smiled faintly. "I'm sure you would. Do you want me to pull it out?"

"The arrow?"

"Yes."

"Depends. How many more times is my life gonna be risked for yours today? Because at the rate this is going, this might be the least painful way to die."

Harry's smile grew stronger, even as he bit his lip to restrain it. "You're done for the day, I think. Only three, Malfoy."

Closing his eyes, Draco nodded. "Do it then, before I start to cry. It hurts like a bitch. And don't let that fucking Weapons Club see me like this, Potter, or I'll kill you myself."

The Weapons Club still had a ways to go, and Harry nodded. "They're still far away," he said reassuringly, wrapping his hands around the arrow. "Are you ready? I'm going to count to three."

"I'm ready," Draco lied.

"One…" Harry jerked the arrow out and Draco yelped, his eyes flying wide as he started to sit up, his good arm reaching up to wrap around Harry's throat. "Hold still," Harry scolded. "I'll close the wound and clean up the blood, we can tell them the arrow missed."

The idea of saving face before the Weapon's Club was apparently more appealing than killing Harry because Draco fell obediently back into the grass, letting Harry fix his arm and clean it up. When it was done, he got to his feet.

"If you ever touch me again, I'll kill you."

Harry watched Draco walk away, and then turned to face the club. "It missed," he said, handing the arrow to the distraught Hufflepuff archer. "He's fine."

It was Ron who noticed the blood on the arrow and on Harry's hand, but he didn't comment.

***

The heat cracked into a massive storm late that night, the first breaking of thunder waking Harry from what had been a restless, dreamless sleep. At first, he wasn't sure what had awakened him, and he stared at his ceiling in confusion. A flash of lightning lit the room and he was up and out of bed in a heartbeat. Harry loved storms.

Grabbing his glasses, he raced to the window and threw himself onto the sill, slamming his glasses on, his mouth falling open a little bit in awe. The sky was rolling with thick clouds of various shades of purple, with veins of lightning snaking through, like forked fingers. Rain fell in gray sheets, pounding the window and flattening the grass. Wind was howling and tearing at the trees, breaking branches and tossing them easily through the air.

It was wicked and wild and Harry loved every second of it.

Dawn was anticlimactic and didn't ease the storm at all. The clouds were so thick that the sun barely even made a difference, except that it signaled that Harry had to start getting ready for class. It was Friday and the weekend looming before him was a relief for his weary body and exhausted mind.

He showered quickly and hurried into the common room to sit at the window and watch the storm until it was time to go to breakfast.

Ron and Hermione went ahead and Harry followed behind, more slowly because he kept pausing at every window to watch the storm. Used to his fascination with storms, they didn't bother to wait, and soon enough, Harry was walking alone, mouth hanging open the tiniest bit, heart beating faster than it had in weeks.

"Oh bloody ever lasting hell."

He glanced away from the window and over his shoulder. Draco had been walking in the opposite direction and he had paused when he'd seen Harry, his face going a little pale. "Malfoy," Harry greeted, his voice thick and shaking, though distracted. He'd barely even registered Draco's presence, as enraptured with the storm as he was.

Draco was glancing about warily, as if looking for potential threats, unable to decide if turning and going the way he'd come was the best option, or hurrying on his way. There was a broken window in the hall about midway between them and rain was leaking through, but it looked safe enough. He took a deep breath and started walking forward carefully. Deciding he'd stood at that window long enough, Harry did the same, almost smiling when he heard Draco audibly hold his breath when they passed in the hallway.

And then, right when they were shoulder to shoulder in front of the broken window, Harry slipped in the puddle that had formed there, crashing into Draco and knocking him to the floor where his robes were quickly soaked through with water.

"Why is this happening to me?" Draco howled, furious.

Harry could only stare at him, his face lit up with amusement. Had anyone noticed, they would have realized it was the first time his face had been lit up with anything in months. "Alright, Malfoy?"

"Get away from me! You're cursed! Don't _touch_ me!"

Harry was laughing so hard that he almost couldn't catch his breath as he hurried away down the hall. If this was a curse, he almost rather liked it.

Draco Malfoy had never met a knight in shining armor and, he always liked to think, if he ever did, he wouldn’t be that impressed. Really, what’s a stupid sod in a metal suit good for, in the grand scheme of things? He thought girls who dreamed of such things were sentimental and dull; surely their imaginations could come up with a more fitting hero. Which was why, when he found himself somehow cast into the role of Harry Potter’s Personal Knight In Shining Armor, he was Not Impressed. In the least.

It wasn’t like he was having that great of a week to begin with. Draco rarely did have a week that was completely Good, without a single hint of Bad in it. Then again, he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys were supposed to think that Bad was Good and Good was Bad, black was white and white was black and Voldemort help the wizard who fancied gray. Draco, despite popular opinion, quite fancied it; he felt it brought out the silver in his eyes.

There weren’t many things that Draco thought he was afraid of, not really. Oh, he could have spoken of what he feared for hours, but it was more quality than quantity. The list was short but the levels of terror were high. He did not fear the dark or heights or creepy crawlies and certainly not snakes. Nor did he fear death or pain or monsters in the shadows. He feared being helpless and he feared being afraid. He feared tattoos of skulls and snakes and feared his father’s wrath should he ever hear of that. He feared growing into the splitting image of his father and he feared dying the same. He feared Voldemort most of all.

He worried about a lot. About growing old and failing his classes and embarrassing himself and never beating Potter at Quidditch. Worry was not the same as fear, however, because worry was somehow softer. You didn’t worry about anything that you thought would possibly come true. Draco would _never_ be old (immortality is an illusion of the young), he’d never fail, and he had to beat Potter eventually. But he feared what he was sure would really happen someday. He’d become his father; he’d die the same as his father was going to; Voldemort would have him.

That was one time when Draco would let himself fear the dark. If Voldemort was in it, then he’d fear it.

He had no problem with the dark, however, if he was pushing Potter into it before him, which was why this current situation was so irritating. He didn’t want to have anything to do with Potter unless it somehow lead to the other boy dying a horrible death, losing at Quidditch, being humiliated in a very public place, or being incarcerated for life at Azkaban. Saving his life again and again was hardly a way to endear himself to either his father or Voldemort, and he certainly didn’t want to endear himself to Potter. So all and all, it was a pretty rotten situation for all involved. Potter got to live, and Draco got to piss off the two people with enough power over him to bring about his death.

Draco wasn’t as worldly as he liked to pretend. He didn’t really know what dark objects his father kept below the drawing room floor, and he didn’t really want to see all the Mudbloods killed. Just put somewhere far away where he didn’t have to go to school with them and have it rubbed in his face nearly every day that some of them were smarter than he was. None of them were better looking, of course. Mudbloods had this sort of mousy look about them. Of course, pureblooded witches and wizards ran the risk of inbreeding and some of them had a mangled, lopsided look to them… But Draco, thankfully, was spared that affliction.

Which was why, when his girlfriend of three months, Lisa Turpin, dumped him, Draco was confused. And very horrified.

The worst part about being dumped, according to Draco, was pretending not to care. He’d never had a girlfriend before, however; Pansy and he had had some sort of fling the year before but nothing more than a date to the Yule Ball had ever come of it. This thing with Lisa… Draco had allowed himself to believe that he was in love. Fifteen was high time for First Love anyway, he had decided, upon further consideration of the matter. Apparently it was also a good time for his first broken heart, and that… that pissed Draco off to no end. Malfoys weren’t _dumped_! Malfoys were worshipped and adored. Not told that ‘it just wasn’t working out.’

And doing it in the middle of the hottest afternoon in history, dropping the bracelet he’d given her into the grass by the lake and walking away with a mumbled apology?! He should have known better than to date a Ravenclaw! No class, absolutely no class.

Adding insult to that injury, he had nearly tripped over Potter on his way back to castle, and then gotten shot by a random arrow.

It was certainly not shaping up to be a very impressive week. Add to that, the weird stint in the hall earlier when he’d humiliated himself and slipped in that puddle, and Draco was having The Worst Week Ever.

But, he told himself cheerfully, as he left his last class that day, it could hardly get any worse!

Being a Malfoy and as familiar with dark magic as he was, Draco should have known that by having that thought, he was basically hexing himself.

Keeping a watch out for Potter (because horrible things seemed to happen most often when he was around), he was on his way to the library to finish a Charms assignment, when Draco noticed what appeared to be some sort of trap set up above the doorway leading into the library.

A short distance away, he heard snickering, and he turned. Peeves was hovering in the corner, watching; obviously he’d set this trap up and was just waiting for someone to walk into it. There was a large metal bucket balancing precariously on the ledge, and he could faintly smell something loathsome inside it.

Draco was certainly not willingly walking into that.

“Malfoy!”

He turned, surprised. Potter had snuck up on him. Again, Draco glanced at the trap and at Peeves and then at Potter. Was this another attempt at Potter’s life that Draco was meant to accidentally thwart? Well, not today!

“Potter,” he sneered. “Going to the library?”

Potter’s green eyes flicked to Draco’s in some vague sort of surprise that was more grudging acceptance than anything else. It was disappointing; usually Potter’s eyes shone like green fire whenever Draco looked at him, spoke to him, sneered at him, stood near him.

“Sort of,” Potter said, nodding. “The library’s a good place for homework, after all.”

“Indeed.” Draco was thinking fast. Maybe this was all a plot of Potter’s! Maybe he was trying to have Draco killed off and make it look like an accident! After all, that Cedric had died just because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time with Potter, and maybe Potter figured he’d do Draco in the same way. Not today.

Potter looked confused. “What did you expect? That’s what libraries are for, after all.”

“Well,” he drawled, with a grand gesture towards the door. “Ladies first.”

“Excuse me?”

He sighed. “If you think, after all that’s happened lately, I’m going to walk through that door first and be hit by a flying broomstick or have a stack of books fall on me just to save your sorry arse, Potter, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Potter looked like he was restraining a grin. “Oh. Yes of course.” He walked through the door unscathed.

“Drat,” Draco mumbled, glancing at Peeves before darting through the door.

The bucket fell, splashing foul liquid over Draco’s body. Draco would have been horrified had the heavy bucket not stuck him in the head and knocked him to the ground, unconscious.

Definitely The Worst Week Ever.

He woke up to a massive headache, lying on the cold stone floor, with Potter bending over him, frowning.

“Ah,” he said when he noticed Draco’s eyes open. “Malfoy. You’re not dead then?”

“Apparently not,” Draco moaned, spots dancing in front of his eyes. “I was hit by a bucket.”

“Umm, yes, I saw. Peeves flew off. Do you need to go to the hospital wing?”

He snorted. “No, I’ve just got a headache, Potter. Not everyone runs off to the hospital wing as soon as they’ve got a bit of a headache. I’m fine.” He sat up, glancing around, trying not to wince at the pain in his head.

“And you rather smell,” Potter pointed out delicately.

“Did I look as though I required your opinion on the way I smell?” Draco snapped scathingly, before stalking off towards Slytherin House, his pride battered and shredded but still held tightly around him like a cloak. It was hard, after all, to retain any bits of pride at all, when he’d been doused with a potion designed to make him smell like rotting flower petals.

***

After dinner that night, Draco managed to forget all about the incident outside the library. It wasn’t because he had anything more pleasant to think about. In fact, it was because during dinner, Lisa didn’t even seem to remember he existed. He’d almost hoped she’d come to her senses and beg him to take her back, but she apparently was still quite insane and in denial.

He was moping about it late that night, up in the astronomy tower, pacing the room and ranting out loud, though there was no one to hear him.

It wasn’t that he particularly liked Lisa or would miss her that much. It was just that no Malfoy had ever invested any time or energy into something that hadn’t had any sort of results. He hadn’t gotten anything from those three months of being with Lisa. Not even a proper shagging. And to be a fifteen-year-old virgin and a Malfoy was unheard of.

It was still storming outside and Draco collapsed on the windowsill, watching the rain and lightning swirl furiously outside the window. He still had the bracelet Lisa had dropped into the grass at his feet the day before, and he pulled it out of his pocket, studying it in the low light. It was heavy, warm against his palm. He’d bought it in Hogsmeade for quite a large sum of money, and it was magically inscribed with the words ‘Lisa I love you’ inside. A physical reminder of Draco’s humiliation and he hated it.

He pushed the window open, flinching against the wind and the rain. He was done with love. Anything that hurt like this wasn’t worth it.

It was only puppy love at the most, and hardly hurt at all, really, but Draco wasn’t worldly enough to tell the difference between true heartbreak and embarrassment. In fact, he was hardly worldly at all, and this was the first time he’d ever been hurt at all, and he thought the world was ending. Humiliation was, to him, the worst sort of pain, and it didn’t matter that he didn’t like her all that much. She had hurt him and he hated her. He swore to himself then that he’d never love anyone again.

Throwing the bracelet out the window wasn’t good enough. Snarling, Draco took out his wand and caught the bracelet with a banishing charm meant to send it flying far into the storm.

What occurred next happened so fast that Draco barely registered it until after it was over. He first became aware of someone standing alone on the grounds in the storm, someone cast in shadows. Then, a thick tangle of lightning arched towards the person on the ground, just as Draco sent his copper bracelet spinning through the air. At the last possible second, the lightning deflected away from the person and curved upwards again, slamming into the bracelet, making it glow and snap for a split second before it was gone, incinerated. The lightning had died as well.

Harry Potter, alone on the grounds, his face turned up to the rain, was laughing and waving at him.

“You stupid sod!” Draco shrieked out the window, unheard over the rain. He remembered Potter’s words from the day before. Three times a day and that had been the third. He was done for the day, at least. “That’s it! Tomorrow I’m killing you myself!”

But Potter didn’t hear over the storm.

***

The next morning, Harry woke up with a smile. That in itself marked the day as strange, because usually he woke up and blinked, staring up at the ceiling and thinking vaguely to himself, “Ah. Still here, then?” But this morning, he woke up and for a long moment, couldn’t figure out what was different about the morning. Then he realized that it was the muscles in his face twisting up into a smile.

“Right,” he said out loud, a little unnerved. “Good dreams then, I suppose.” He didn’t remember them, though he did recall claiming, only a few short days ago, that he didn’t dream anymore, and found himself wistfully wishing he could recall this one. It must have been good, if it had made him smile. And he certainly wasn’t smiling because he was awake. Generally Harry preferred to be asleep because at least when he was asleep and not dreaming, he had an excuse not to feel. As opposed to being awake and moving about life like nothing matters and wondering why but not having the energy to change it.

He got out of bed and showered and went to class with Ron and Hermione, tried to pay attention to them and to his professors, and at lunch, didn’t choke on any food or taste any poison or love spells. In fact, he was nearly disappointed and figured that the curse or whatever it had been was over.

It was so hot that day, even hotter than the previous day, that Dumbledore decided to cancel the afternoon classes, because no one was learning anyway. It was just so hot inside that no one could concentrate. Hermione immediately whooped and cried something about all the extra study time, disappearing into the library, and Dean decided it was high time he taught Ron, Seamus, and Neville the rules of football. Harry was invited but declined, the heat making him irritable and crave solitude even more than he naturally did.

So mid afternoon found Harry dressed in Muggle jeans and an old t-shirt, slipping out a side door, and escaping the hot Hogwarts halls in exchange for the sweltering heat outdoors.

He moaned a little as the humid heat hit his body, instantly drawing sweat from his skin and making him wilt a little.

“This is ridiculous,” he grumbled as he made his way over the grounds. “It’s never this hot here.”

He briefly considered going into the forest, where the trees would create enough shade to grant at least some degree of coolness, but it was too hot even to stomach the idea of walking across the grounds towards it. Besides, the forest was off-limits.

He went instead to the Quidditch pitch, watching from the shelter of the stands as Dean laughingly outlined the rules for football. Other students had gathered now as well, and they’d broken into two teams. Everyone was laughing and grinning, and Harry wistfully wished he had any sort of inclination to join them. He didn’t, however, and he sighed, slipping into the changing rooms, hoping it was cooler there at least.

It wasn’t. It was quieter, however, and he wearily slumped onto his back on a bench, closing his eyes. He hated excessive heat. He was thirsty and sweaty and irritated, and was trying desperately to think up something to distract himself with.

He went into the back closet that housed the school brooms and broomstick oils and such, intending to busy himself oiling up the old Clean Sweeps. Madam Hooch would surely thank him for it later.

He was just selecting a broom when the door to the closet swung shut, casting him into a hot, sweaty darkness.

For a long moment, Harry didn’t move. He loathed the darkness. It was false and treacherous and it told a thousand lies that would have been plainly seen in the light. It made him cold, inside and out, and it made him shake with terror. He’d rather die by something he could see than die by something cowardly, that killed in the dark.

“God,” he said, and it echoed in the darkness. Just a single, shaky syllable that held no respite from the emptiness.

He dropped the broom he’d been holding and spun towards the door, the clatter of falling broomsticks making him jump, making him pant with fear, as he crawled over buckets and broomsticks and chests of Quidditch balls.

“It’s just there,” he reassured himself. “The door’s just there.”

His hands closed on the latch desperately and he let out his pent up breath in a shaky hiss, pulling on the handle. It didn’t move; the door was jammed.

It was incredibly hot in the broom closet, the heat made all the more encompassing with the force of Harry’s panic. He’d be locked in here forever, he’d never get out, no one would ever find him, he’d die. Death was all well and good to secretly long for, but only a quick death, not a death in the darkness and sweltering heat on the hottest day of the year. Not death in a broom closet, alone. Not death in the dark.

“Please,” he whimpered, tugging on the door again. Nothing.

Harry panicked.

He screamed and he pounded and kicked at the door, all logic blown from his mind. His wand remained in his pocket, forgotten, though it wouldn’t have been much good. The door wasn’t locked, no alohamora was going to get him out of this. He was trapped.

Eventually, when beating on the door proved useless, Harry started throwing things, screaming himself hoarse, his mind latching on the idea that nothing could sneak up on him and grab him if he kept the shadows terrified in the corners. He spun in mad circles, shrieking and randomly tossing broomsticks into the darkness, effectively trashing the closet. Finally, when the heat had caused rivers of sweat to run down his body and dizziness to make him weak, he slumped to the floor, panting. It was so hot, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Claustrophobia was driving him crazy.

_He was back in the closet under the stairs again. He was locked in and Uncle Vernon was going to kill him when he got home and Aunt Petunia told him of how Harry had accidentally destroyed Dudley’s science project. It was hot, nearly summer, and Uncle Vernon was going to keep him locked under the stairs for a week at least for this, with only the paltriest food shoved in through the heat register in the door. The walls were falling in on him and Harry couldn’t breathe…_

He crawled to the door and pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on it. His throat burned, he didn’t know how long he’d been trapped but it seemed like forever.

“Please, someone…” he whimpered.

“What the devil?”

He jumped at the voice. Someone was in the changing room. It was Draco Malfoy.

Suddenly being trapped in a boiling hot broom closet was preferable to being found there by Draco Malfoy, and Harry shrunk away from the door, eyes going wide.

“How the hell did this fall in front of the door?” Draco was saying, out loud, as he approached the door. There was a small scraping sound and then a thump as the door opened very slowly.

His gray eyes were great at showing surprise, Harry vaguely noticed, staring in horror at Draco.

“Potter?” Draco cried.

Harry cleared his throat. “What?” he said, attempting to make his voice cold with icy disdain. It worked for Draco often enough in situations like this, after all. He swept passed Draco and into the blissfully light change room.

“What on earth—were you… you were…” Draco glanced suspiciously from the trashed closet to Harry’s pale, sweaty face, and back again. His hands flew to his hips and he said in suddenly realization, “You were trapped in the broom closet.”

“I wasn’t!” Harry cried.

“You would have died if I hadn’t let you out. Eventually. Of starvation or heat stroke or something.” He sounded keenly disappointed.

“I wouldn’t have! I had everything under control!”

Draco’s eyes were very narrow now, and he said in a tightly controlled voice, “I’m not going to be around forever, Potter. Next time, I’m going to let you die.”

“I don’t _want_ you to be around!” Harry spat. “I’d rather you just let me die!” He hadn’t planned to say it and he _certainly_ wished he hadn’t. He hadn’t even known he thought that way.

Draco laughed coldly. “Oh, Potter, if you honestly want to die, locking yourself in a broom closet’s hardly the way to go.” He stepped into the closet and picked up a bottle of broomstick oil, which was what he’d come down here for to begin with. “Razors work better.”

Touching his neck almost subconsciously, Harry swallowed hard and didn’t say anything.

“And kindly hurry up with the suicide thing, I look forward to not having to deal with you,” Draco finished.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you didn’t have me to constantly compare yourself to,” Harry said, rolling his eyes.

Draco stared at him for a long moment, coldly, fury making his eyes almost black. Then, he walked away without a word.

***

The lake was not Harry’s favourite place in the world, but with the forest off-limits, it seemed the smartest place to go for respite from the clinging heat. The air had to be cooler there, it was a rule somewhere, so Harry restlessly made his way towards it. Climbing up onto a rock and panting a little, he whimpered, low in his throat, still shaken from being trapped in the closet.

His shirt was plastered to his back and chest, sticky with sweat, and he peeled it off, tossing it to the ground in disgust. It was technically against the Hogwarts dress code to appear anywhere other than his dorm room and the bathroom not properly clothed, but Harry figured he was far enough from the actual school to be allowed to take his shirt off. Besides, like anyone would care. He bet all the people playing football had long since torn their shirts off.

He shifted uncomfortably at the images that thought evoked and instead watched the sun glinting off the flat surface of the lake. Even the water seemed shrunken and listless in the sweltering heat, and he wondered if the water were as warm and lifeless as it looked.

A short, hot breeze blew through his hair suddenly, bringing with it the sound of laughter from the Quidditch pitch, faded as an old memory and just as painful. A sharp burst of loneliness hit Harry then, even if his isolation was of his own choice. It wasn’t so much that he wanted company, it was just that, when he was by himself, he was very much aware of how truly alone he was. Maybe he was constantly surrounded by friends and professors and such, but he was always somehow apart from them. Whether it was because of his scar or because he just felt different, Harry didn’t know. All he knew was that it was becoming increasingly easy to feel segregated from his friends, and it infuriated him that they didn’t notice.

Being by himself was the only time when Harry felt he was being honest with the people around him, and then it was only because, of course, there weren’t any. He didn’t know if he could particularly handle being the hero everyone assumed him to be. Honestly, he wasn’t all that brave; he was scared out of his mind. What sort of hero was terrified of waking up in the morning? What sort of hero secretly wished never to wake up because at least sleeping was real? At least if he was killed in his sleep, he could die knowing that it really wasn’t his fault. He’d been asleep, how was he supposed to protect himself? Even heroes have to sleep. Even heroes have to die. Most likely sooner and more violently than other people.

And it scared him. A lot of things scared him. Being alone scared him. That’s why Harry liked it; he liked a certain degree of controllable fear. Being alone by choice meant that if he changed his mind, he could have companionship. Being alone against his will was out of his control, and he flaunted having control over it, just a little bit.

He also was sort of selfishly waiting to see who would notice and come after him, to see if he was alright. A call for attention, he supposed. Ron would snort and say “You’re the sodding Boy Who Lived, Harry, what more attention could you need?”

Not that sort of attention. The sort of attention that was more than ‘Oh, Harry’ll be fine. He’s faced You-Know-Who so many times already, he’s got to be practically invincible!’. The sort of attention that was more ‘Oh, Harry, are you alright? Are you still breathing? Are you scared? Don’t be scared, Harry, it’ll be alright’. Or even being shaken roughly while someone shouted ‘You stupid sod, look at all there is to live for. And you’re willing to let it slip away because you’re scared? So much for legendary Gryffindor courage! You should have been a Slytherin, just like me.’

Harry blinked. “What?” he said out loud, glancing around, startled, as if wondering who had put that traitorous thought into his head. No one was there.

He wasn’t blind to patterns. Even if he was, Harry had to be a complete and mindless idiot to miss the way things were resolving themselves into patterns. These last few days, all the accidents, and then Draco Malfoy suddenly appearing each time Harry was in trouble and accidentally saving his life. Of course, not all patterns have a point. He was quite sure crop circles were pointless, as were the designs on sea shells and the way knots on planks of wood sometimes arranged themselves to look like faces. But still, a pattern was useful when it was understood, then it could be manipulated. And Harry understood this one. Somehow, Draco Malfoy had become some sort of protector. Like something had decided it was time for Harry to die and something else beyond his comprehension had decided that Draco Malfoy was the one to ensure that it didn’t happen.

Or something.

All Harry knew was that Draco had developed a habit of showing up at the right moment, right when things nearly got a thousand times worse. And he was incredibly lonely right now. Not for the companionship of those who would let him wallow in his depression. Companionship that would make him forget, would make him feel something.

That was why he decided to get to his feet on the rock right on the shore of the lake, where the water dropped off into blackness. He lifted his arms until they were at right angles to his body, like wings, and took off his glasses, tossing them to the grass. And then, eyes closed and face turned up to the sun, he let himself fall into the water, more tipping over and dropping than diving.

He landed on his stomach and it stung. Harry didn’t care, and let himself sink like a stone, thinking vaguely, as the air in his lungs started pulling him back up again, “I do hope the giant squid’s not around.”

Rising to the surface, he glanced around hopefully, looking for Draco’s familiar figure. He was disappointed, the Slytherin wasn’t there.

“Bollocks,” Harry mumbled. At least he was cooler now. The water, while not cold, was certainly cooler than the air, and he lazily floated on his back, closing his eyes and letting his breath out slowly. It was relaxing and sweet, very quiet, with his ears under the water giving every sound a sort of softened effect.

He drifted for a long while, eyes still closed. The water had gently pushed him to the weedy bank a little ways from the rocks, and he rolled over, the slimy mud against his stomach somehow soothing. He pushed his face into the shallow water and opened his eyes, the green water reminding him of his life; hazy and shadowed and very, very foggy.

He let himself stay that way, on his stomach in the shallow water, his hair drifting around his head like a black halo, arms stretched out to either side.

And Harry forgot to come up for air. It just didn’t seem worth spoiling the serenity of being weightless this way.

He was completely and utterly blown away and startled when he distantly heard a savage curse, shouted in a very familiar voice. His shoulder was grabbed roughly and he was flipped onto his back.

“Potter. Potter! You sodding well better be breathing, or I swear…”

He blinked. “Of course I’m breathing,” he said dumbly. “Have you gone mad, Malfoy?”

Scowling, the legs of his trousers soaked from dashing into the lake after Harry, Draco backed away quickly. “No,” he said shortly. “I just didn’t expect to see someone in the lake and you looked… well, dead. It was…”

Harry wondered what he was going to say to finish that sentence. Scary, disgusting, wonderful, wish you were dead, you stupid, stupid Gryffindor?

“…It was a shock, that’s all.”

Sitting up, Harry shook his head a little to clear away the fog. “I looked dead, did I? Didn’t mean to scare you, Malfoy, I was just —”

“Scare me? I certainly wasn’t scared! Surprised is all. Though why I was surprised at the idea that the Boy-Who-Lived was so unstable that he’d drown himself, I don’t know.”

Harry had stood up and made his way out of the water, aware that he was covered with mud and soaked straight through. His trousers clung in the most uncomfortable way and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. To distract Draco from that, he said, “What surprises me, Malfoy, is this time you willingly saved me.”

Draco’s mouth opened to deliver his snappy retort, and then slowly closed, his eyes reflecting some unreadable response. He didn’t say anything, and Harry frowned.

“What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were polishing your broomstick.”

“What’s it to you where I go?” Draco snapped, turning to continue on his way.

Harry panicked. He suddenly very much didn’t want to be left alone, more startled than he cared to admit that forgetting to come up for air had been so easy for him. “Malfoy!” He cried.

Glancing over his shoulder, Draco scowled. “What?”

“Th-thanks. For all of this.”

For a long moment, he didn’t think Draco would reply. Then, he did. “I certainly didn’t do it for your benefit, Potter.” He walked away then, and Harry watched him go, silently.

He would have thought that the loneliness would have come crashing back when Draco left, but it didn’t. Somehow he felt lighter. Maybe it was the reassurance that the pattern wasn’t quite finished after all.

Then again, maybe it was relief that Draco seemed to be doing such a good job of showing up just when Harry needed him.

Trusting Draco Malfoy, in any sense, should not have been a relief. But oddly, it was.

Harry was smiling a little as he grabbed his shirt and his glasses and made his way back towards Hogwarts.

***

It was dusk, and the setting sun offered only a very slight respite from the intense heat. But Harry was in a better mood than he could remember being in days, and he nervously approached the Quidditch pitch where the game of football was still going strong.

“Can I play?” he asked quietly, unheard over the laughter and shouting.

It was Ron who noticed him. “Harry!” he cried. “Come and play! You can be Keeper for my side, Neville is rubbish!”

“Oi! I’m not!” Neville shouted.

“Goalie,” Dean yelled.

“Umm, sorry, Nev, old boy,” Seamus called apologetically. “But you wanted a chance to kick the ball and not have it kicked at you anyway, didn’t you? This is your chance! You can be a Beater!”

“Right back,” Dean corrected in an exasperated tone. He was grinning from ear to ear, however, and Harry felt himself relax into the easy shallowness of the entire exchange. This was simple, easy. He knew the rules to football of course, and that made this entire thing… somewhat predictable. Safe.

He took his post as goalie and lost himself in the monotony of only having to move when the ball came at him. By far a better Seeker than a goaltender, Harry still managed to stop a few of the shots.

His game grew steadily worse, however, when he noticed someone flying a short distance away. Draco Malfoy. Harry’s first instinct was to glance around for potential threats, having come to associate Draco’s presence with near-death experiences. There was nothing, however, besides the warm breeze and the Quidditch pitch of football players.

A coincidence, then. It was a novelty and Harry found himself watching Draco fly more often than he watched the ball. The other boy was circling rather aimlessly, his newly polished broomstick shining in the bright twilight. Flying out of boredom, probably, or wanting to feel the wind moving against him in an attempt to escape the heat.

“Oi! Harry!”

He looked up at Ron’s shout in time to see the football kicked by Seamus coming right for him. “Shit,” he mumbled, managing to catch it and kick it to Neville, who squealed in delight and quickly lost it to a Hufflepuff on the other team. With an eerie war cry, Ron launched himself at the ball and took it, kicking it down the field, and Harry let his eyes wander back to Draco, still making lazy loops over the lake.

***

Draco had heard of football of course. Once or twice. He wasn’t familiar enough with the game, however, to recognize it, and it was pure curiosity that drew him closer to the strange game taking place on the Quidditch pitch. He didn’t understand; it looked like a bunch of random players running around the field, chasing a single ball. Odd, there being only one ball and all. It seemed terribly simple but beyond him all at the same time.

Biting his lip and flying closer, Draco frowned. It made no sense. Who in their right mind would play a game that simple instead of Quidditch? Then again, Dean was leading the game and he was a Mudblood, wasn’t he? That meant it could be a Muggle game and Muggles were notoriously simpleminded.

He circled lower, trying to see any sort of strategy or pattern in the game below. Longbottom kicked the ball almost randomly and it shot into a net on one end of the field. What happened then so revolted Draco that he almost flew away right then. Lifting his arms, Longbottom shrieked and spun about, flailing his arms and crowing like a rooster.

It was that distraction that nearly cost Draco his life. He was staring in horror at Longbottom when the Keeper or whatever dropkicked the ball and it came at him fast, hitting him in the side of the head and knocking him off his broom.

It happened so suddenly that Draco wasn’t aware of much. A strange and sickening loss of balance, and the distant sound of someone screaming, and then the whole world twisted and turned around him.

_Ah_, Draco thought vaguely as the ground rushed to meet him. _So this is what dying feels like._

But it wasn’t, not really. Dying would have been hitting the ground, and Draco didn’t. He hadn’t even known that Harry was playing, but he was aware of a flash of startled green eyes and then a jolt as he landed, Harry collapsing beneath him.

For a long moment, Draco just lay there, pinning Harry to the ground, completely unaware of anything other than the fact that his entire body hurt from the shock of it and that it was difficult to breathe. Then, slowly, as his breathing steadied, he became conscious of two huge, shining green eyes beneath him. With that, slowly, other bits of awareness trickled in. Harry’s chest pressed to his, Harry’s heartbeat echoing his, Harry’s hand clutching his upper arm, Harry’s legs under Draco’s.

“That was…different,” Harry said quietly, his eyes locked on Draco’s and strangely dark.

“How?” Draco breathed, still disoriented.

“Well, this time, I saved you.”

Draco blinked; it was true. He’d have died if Harry hadn’t broken his fall, and it twisted things in a way he wasn’t sure he liked. It made _him_ feel indebted to _Harry_.

Fully intending to roll away and stalk off in a snit, Draco was distracted when Harry sucked in a shuddering breath and said in a wondering sort of tone, “It’s so weird. I thought you’d be cold…”

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to encourage this conversation, given that Harry had a strangely hypnotized look on his face (had he hit his head when Draco landed on him? That would explain it) and that Draco was still lying on top of him.

He couldn’t help it. “Cold?”

His eyelids fluttered a little and Harry looked thoughtful. “Cold. Like a snake.”

“And I’m not?” Draco was aware of the other people rushing towards them, to see if Harry was alright. He wasn’t so blind as to think they gave a damn if he had survived the fall.

“You’re not,” Harry confirmed. “You’re…warm.”

Suddenly Draco was aware of Harry beneath him. Not aware of him as in noticing the places that they touched, but aware as in noticing how it _felt_. The way a soft sort of heat that was gentler than the cruel heat of the sun surrounded Harry, the way his breath brushed against Draco’s chin when he exhaled, the strength in the fingers still gripping his arm. The way one of Harry’s knees was slightly bent so that Draco’s legs were in fact not lying on top of them so much as between them. The way one of Draco’s hands was beside Harry’s head and the other boy’s dark hair was brushing his wrist. The way, if Draco only let his head dip the tiniest bit, their lips would meet.

As if he would. As if Draco would ever willingly do that. As if he liked his entire body being pressed against Harry’s! As if he _wanted_ this!

But he wanted something, and suddenly Draco couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was.

His eyes, however, must have reflected somewhat of what he was suddenly feeling, because Harry, whose own eyes seemed so deep and bottomless, whispered, “Are you scared?”

Draco Malfoy, _afraid_? Of Harry Potter? Hardly. He opened his mouth to snap some sort of reply, to crush that fragile glow in Harry’s eyes, to hurt him. Instead, he replied solemnly, “Should I be?”

The moment, whatever the hell it had been, was shattered then, because the football players had arrived. Though it felt like an eternity since his fall, it had been merely seconds, and Draco was pulled roughly off of Harry.

He stared at the other boy for a long moment as he was pulled away, a few solicitous Hufflepuffs checking him for injury. Harry stared back, eyes empty and flat now, and that emptiness terrified Draco, though he couldn’t explain why.

Draco Malfoy, _afraid_?

Apparently.

Because Harry Potter wanted to die. And Draco suddenly remembered Harry’s words from the change rooms earlier. “You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you didn’t have me to constantly compare yourself to.”

He wondered, suddenly, just how true that was.

***

He was treated like a fallen hero. It offended Harry, in some vague sense, that while Draco was taken care of by the Hufflepuffs, Harry was consoled, as if the worst part of the entire affair was having been taken down by Draco Malfoy, not any injuries he may have sustained. Rather than checking for broken bones, they squeezed his hands and made comments on how brave he was for not trying to kill Draco for daring to land on him.

If Draco hadn’t landed on him… If Harry hadn’t broken Draco’s fall… Draco could have died. A bit of shock and having the wind knocked out of him was the least of what he was willing to pay to make sure another student didn’t die while he watched helplessly, like Cedric had. Even if that student was Draco Malfoy.

Maybe even especially if it was Draco Malfoy.

Harry frowned even as he let Ron and Seamus help him to his feet and walk him back to Hogwarts, like some sort of prince fallen in battle. Hardly a prince. He wasn’t even injured. He allowed it, however, because Harry had allowed himself to be led around like some sort of fallen hero his entire life. Or at least, since he’d turned eleven.

He dreamed that night, vivid dreams that he would remember upon waking. That in itself marked the night as different, though of course, in all the nights to come, he would wonder about that night, and how it could have seemed so much more colourful than all the other nights before it, untainted with any hint of what was to come.

He should have been nervous. He should have somehow known. He should never have woken up the next morning.

But Harry did. He fell into an exhausted sleep and dreamed of swimming upstream in a river that burned. The river was made up of streams of different colours. Crimson, gold, silver, green, and yellow, that washed over him like silken ribbons and tangled about his ankles, trying to pull him downstream. The sky above had been leached of colours, and Harry knew without knowing how he knew that he had fallen from that dead sky into this river of ribbons, and that if he let himself be swept along with the current, he’d end up back in the sky, suspended in black and white, colourless oblivion. And so he kept swimming, struggling upstream towards a destination he couldn’t see. He could vaguely hear it, however, and it sounded like morning birds singing in some sort of wild, untamed melody.

When he woke up, his sheets had tangled around his ankles and for a long moment, he thought he was still in that colourful river.

The sun hadn’t yet risen, however, and the room was cast in black and white. Not the river of colour after all, but something duller. He felt a sharp stab of desperation, because nothing had any sort of colour and the dream had awakened in him a longing for something that deep and vibrant, something missing from his life. Something that sparked of crimson and silver.

He got out of bed and went for his morning shower. His eyes didn’t look so flat this morning, though they looked somehow darker, like bruises. He smiled at himself, a tired, wistful smile, but a smile all the same. The water was hot and steam misted up the bathroom, swirling when he stepped from the shower, water running off his body. He once again rubbed it off the mirror with his fist and inspected his face, looking for changes.

“Still a little boy,” he murmured, inspecting his reflection. Boyish smile, boyish hair, boyish shoulders. The only part that looked old at all were his eyes. Green and endless and so very old and tired. Like they were worn straight through. It was unnerving, and Harry looked away. If he’d have known that it was the last time he’d get to see his face before everything shattered, the last time he’d ever look like a little boy, he would have looked just a little bit longer. Maybe said goodbye before he turned away.

He didn’t, however; in the mornings to come, he’d always wonder how he could have let go so easily of that innocent reflection.

Of course, he didn’t know then what that day would bring.

***

Ron, Hermione, and Harry were on their way to breakfast when the Head Girl, Heather Murphy, approached them. She was smiling in a friendly sort of way. "Hey, Hermione," she greeted brightly, before turning her brown eyes on Harry. "You're Harry Potter, aren't you?"

Everyone knew who he was, but he still shrugged and said, "Yes."

"Headmaster Dumbledore sent me to find you. He wants you to have breakfast with him in his office this morning."

Harry frowned. "Why?"

"That's strange," Hermione said with a frown. "Is Harry in trouble?"

"I don't think so," Heather said, shrugging. "Otherwise he wouldn't be invited for breakfast."

"He probably heard about this deal with Malfoy," Ron said wisely. "All the times he's tried to kill you and all."

Harry rolled his eyes but didn't reply, saying instead, "Right, I suppose I'd better go see what he wants." He felt a little nervous, or maybe, in retrospect, he should have felt nervous and didn't. He'd never be quite sure.

He'd been to Dumbledore's office enough times to know the way, but he let Heather lead him. She left him in the hall and went in herself to tell Dumbledore that he was there. Frowning when she came out, she said in a rather perplexed tone, "That's odd, I didn't know Dumbledore had a dog…" she looked startled when she saw Harry there. "Sorry, Harry. You can go up. Hope you're not afraid of dogs, there's a massive black one up there." She smiled and hurried off to breakfast. Harry didn't notice.

It had to be Sirius. Harry sped into Dumbledore's office, forgetting to wonder about the strange request to join the headmaster for breakfast, forgetting to worry about Sirius being in danger. Because Sirius was here and Harry hadn't seen him in months.

"Sirius!" he cried, ignoring the headmaster as he fell to his knees and flung his arms around the shaggy dog's neck, burying his face in the thick fur. "I've missed you!"

Dumbledore was laughing gently as Sirius licked Harry's face. "Go on, Sirius, change back. It's quite safe in my office, I assure you."

The dog was gone a moment later and Sirius was there, smiling gently at Harry, who normally would have been alarmed at the strange, solemn look in Sirius's eyes. He didn't notice, however, because Sirius was mussing Harry's hair, and no one had ever really done that before.

"Welcome, Harry, do sit down, we've been waiting," Dumbledore said quietly.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked Sirius. He was feeling more lighthearted and happy than he had in days.

Sirius' eyes slid away from Harry's. "Dumbledore asked me to be here and I agreed."

Harry frowned, suspicions finally blooming in his mind. "Why does he have to be here, sir?" he asked Dumbledore, finally taking the seat Dumbledore had offered him earlier. Sirius sat beside him.

The headmaster looked more exhausted than Harry had ever seen him. Still, he offered Harry some crumpets and muffins, and a tumbler of pumpkin juice, which Harry politely took, though neither Sirius nor Dumbledore ate anything. Instead, Sirius asked him about his grades and Quidditch and other innocuous things until the food was dutifully swallowed, and then he glanced at Dumbledore uncertainly. Harry followed his gaze.

He swallowed, suddenly nervous. "What is it?"

"Harry," Dumbledore began gently. "There is something I've got to tell you. Something I should have told you years ago but have held off on, waiting until I was sure, waiting until…" he trailed off. It was so out of character for the headmaster to be unable to find the words he needed to express himself, that Harry sat up a little straighter, his face turning even more pale than normal. Dumbledore sighed. "It had been my hope that it would never come to this, that we would never need to have this conversation. But it is my policy to always be honest with my students when I feel they deserve that honesty, and you, Harry… You deserve far more than simple honesty, but honesty is all I've got to give you. I wish it were different."

"What are you talking about?" Harry whispered.

Dumbledore closed his eyes, choosing his words carefully, and Sirius was staring at the window as if he could shatter it with his eyes. He looked furious. "Your mother was a brave and resourceful woman, Harry," Dumbledore began finally. "There is no doubt in my mind that if she had not been so strong, so brave, you would not be here today. You would have died as a baby. The ancient magic she called up… it involved an exchange, to seal the magic around you, to shelter you from Voldemort's charm. Your mother did not have that much to give, only her love and her courage. Most who make that exchange give their lives and their souls, but your mother's life and her soul were already forfeit when the compact was struck. She did not call forth the magic until the split second between Voldemort's curse and her own death, so she did not have that to bargain with. In the seconds between her death and Voldemort's attempt to kill you, while your mother's soul still hovered between the worlds, she bargained with the ancient magic and poured into them all of her heart and her love and her courage in exchange for your protection. For the chance for you to have a childhood. Normally, Harry —" and this was when Dumbledore's voice got very gentle — "the spell is for a normal _life_. But your mother was already dead when she made the bargain, and could only raise enough power for a childhood."

Harry blinked, frowning. The logistics of it weren't making much sense to him and he wondered what the point was. When Sirius put an arm around Harry's shoulders, he tensed, growing frightened. "I don't understand," he said, swallowing nervously.

"It was a spell to give you a childhood, Harry." Dumbledore's eyes were fixed on Harry's face intently.

Considering this carefully, Harry said, "A childhood. Right. So when does that end?"

"When you turn 16," Dumbledore said with infinite care in his tone.

"So I won't be protected anymore by that spell?"

There was a long pause as Dumbledore once again had to choose his words carefully. "No, Harry. When the spell ends, what should have happened sixteen years ago, will happen."

"What do you mean?"

"The spell bound you to your body, held death off. And when that spell ends… When the sun rises on your sixteenth birthday…"

Harry's eyes widened as realization hit him. "I die," he whispered. For a long, breathless moment, he waited for someone to deny it.

No one did.

It was all well and good for a perfectly healthy boy who thinks he's going to live forever to decide, rather flippantly and while he was sleeping, that he was sick of living and wanted to die. It was another matter entirely for that same boy to be told he was going to die. Numb, Harry said shakily, "But it's my birthday in two months."

"There has not been a single day that has gone by when I have not thought of this and tried desperately to think up a way to change it, to extend the length of your mother's spell, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly. "And there are still two months and you have my promise that I will not rest until an answer is found. But I felt you deserved to know the truth."

"The truth?" Harry said, laughing in a brittle tone. "You thought I _deserved_ this?"

"If there is anyone who deserves this," Dumbledore said solemnly, "the last person I'd think it would be was you."

"You… you don't know how to fix this," Harry realized out loud. "You, Dumbledore, who always has all the answers, don't know how to fix this! I'm going to… I'm going to die and the greatest wizard ever doesn't even know how to make it go away!" The last word was a sob, and Sirius tried to gather him up and hold him.

Harry fought him off, leaping out of the chair. "Harry," Sirius called, eyes dark and achingly sad. "Harry, there's still time! We can fight this."

"Dumbledore's been trying to fight it since I was a baby!" Harry cried, feeling dizzy. "How are two more months going to change anything?" He looked at Dumbledore now, and said, "How do you know? How do you know the spell's going to run out or whatever?"

"It's the timing," Dumbledore told him quietly. "She didn't have the time or power for the full spell, Harry. Lily's strength was always in her heart, not her magical skills."

Harry nodded jerkily. "Right. Right." It still didn't make much sense. "I… I think I should go," he whispered.

"Harry —" Sirius began, but Dumbledore shook his head slightly.

"I've invited Sirius to stay at Hogwarts for a few days, Harry. When you need him, he'll be here. I suspect you'd rather be alone for the moment, but don't forget, we are both here if you need us. I know it's hard, but don't lose hope yet. Two months is a long time."

He laughed again, sharply. "Not… not when you've just been told that at the end of them, you're going to die."

Neither Dumbledore nor Sirius had a reply to that, and Harry stumbled from the office.

He wasn't going to cry. The strange thing was, crying seemed far too simple a response to this. Not to mention that by crying, he'd be somehow giving in. Losing hope.

The little boy inside, the one who'd given up that night and closed his eyes, deciding to die… Now he was sitting straight up, his eyes open and very wide, shining with tears. Harry didn't really want to die.

Panic hit him then, and Harry nearly forgot how to breathe. Panting and whimpering, one hand braced on the wall as he struggled not to fall apart, he thought he was dying right then. That would solve everything, after all. He wouldn't have to die on his sixteenth birthday if he died today.

The irony would not have been lost on Harry had he been in any way coherent. Just as he was about to suffocate, Draco Malfoy came around the corner.

***

He nearly didn't recognize Harry, which was strange. Draco had memorized the features of Harry's face years before, he could construct a picture of him in his mind with his eyes closed, even if it was summer holidays and he hadn't seen Harry in months. It was intense, that level of obsession, and Draco had always shied away from considering it.

But he'd always begin remembering the lines and curves of Harry's face with his eyes. Picture the eyes first and everything fell into place around them. Maybe some people remembered Harry's scar first and let the rest of his features fall in around it, but Harry's scar was not the first thing Draco had noticed about him, back in that robe shop just before his first year. Draco had always wished his own eyes were green; green was his favourite colour.

Now, however, Harry's eyes weren't green, which was why Draco didn't recognize him. They were black. Not the sort of black you could find in a can of paint or the kind you'd see in a shadow. It was the sort of black that wasn't a shade or a colour but rather the leftovers after all the colour has been sucked away.

Those empty eyes rose wearily to Draco's gray, and then they blinked. When they opened again, ferocious green had filled them. Angry green.

"Potter," Draco stammered, surprised. How had he not recognized him?

Harry didn't speak, didn't move, and Draco suddenly realized that the other boy was gasping, panting, unable to breathe. "Oh, bollocks," Draco moaned. "You're not dying again, are you?"

Further unnerving him, Harry started to laugh. Desperate, wild laughter, the kind that sounded like any second it would crack and he'd start to cry. Despite himself, Draco was a little frightened.

He'd decided, following the night before, when he'd landed on Harry, that he was going to be colder and more cruel to the other boy than ever before from that day forward. Because it was safer and simpler than whatever he'd been thinking on the Quidditch pitch. Now, however, he couldn't quite remember how to be cruel.

"You're hurt," Harry said a moment later, as the laughter subsided. He was staring at Draco's temple, where there was a sizable lump from the football.

"Umm. The Hufflepuffs wanted to charm it away for me, but given their reputation with things like that, I figured I'd rather keep the lump than lose my head or something," Draco replied, shifting nervously on his feet.

Harry reached up and touched the lump gently, and Draco nearly fell over from shock and… and fear. No one had ever touched his injuries gently before, and damned if he was going to let Harry Sodding Potter be the first. "Does it hurt?"

"When it's touched," Draco snapped, relieved when Harry let his hand drop.

"Sorry."

Sorry? Draco frowned fiercely. "What's your game this time, Potter?"

Harry's eyes drifted away, darkening again, the green dripping away. "I haven't got a game. I don't believe in games any longer."

No, no, no, _no_. He was _not_ going to let Harry scare him again with blank eyes and hysterical laughter. He smiled ruefully and touched the lump on his head, saying in a self-depreciating sort of tone, "Me either. Not football, at least." He didn't even like to think about the fact that he was trying to make Harry laugh or something.

Harry blinked, eyes turning confused and returning to focus on Draco's face. "You should do that more often."

"Do what? Get hit in the head with a football?"

"Smile."

"…Oh. Umm. Potter, are you alright?"

Again, Harry blinked, eyes darkening a bit more. "Fine," he replied tonelessly.

Uh oh. There he went again, going all depressive and scary. "Well I'm glad of that," Draco said scathingly. "Hate to think that things weren't all sunshine and daisies in the enchanted world of Harry Sodding Potter."

"Sunshine and daisies?" Harry replied, frowning.

"Yes. You know. The light from the sun and those little white flowers that grow in ditches?" Draco rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Potter, you're even more dimwitted today than you usually are, it's quite disheartening to know that even the limited levels of intelligence I've come to associate with you come and go."

Bright green again, thankfully. He could deal with Harry when his eyes were glittering with rage. Better to keep him angry than to see him sad. What? Why did it matter what sodding colour Harry's eyes were?

Because green was Draco's favourite colour.

"What the hell would you know about sunshine and daisies?" Harry snarled. The rage in his voice struck a chord deep inside Draco. It was a rage he understood. That helpless sort of rage a caged animal might feel while pacing the confines of its prison. The black kind of rage a boy might feel while pulling his fanciest dress robes on because the Death Eaters were coming to dinner and his father wanted him to make a good impression. The sort of rage generated when a little boy had to sit through a long lecture on how it would not do to let the Dark Lord know that you were afraid. Fourteen year old boys were not meant to feel fear.

"I know enough," Draco replied warily, unsure of how to deal with Harry. He had changed; he wasn't recognizable. He was unpredictable and strange and something inside him had changed. He wasn't the same boy Draco had laid on top of only the night before. "I know that sunshine is sometimes so blinding that it glares off anything too white and clean and gives me a headache. I know that daisies are weeds and full of insects. I know that I prefer rainy days and Devil's Snare."

Harry blinked. "Sorry," he said almost breathlessly. "I don't quite feel myself today and don't think I'm up to dealing with you right now."

"Aww, are things not all perfect and pretty in the World of Harry Potter today?" Draco asked sweetly, trying to keep that light of anger in Harry's eyes.

He wasn't prepared for the sheer heat of rage that blossomed inside Harry at his words. "You don't know a fucking thing, Draco Malfoy, so stop fucking pretending you do!" Draco was further unprepared when Harry, trembling from head to toe, exploded in rage and snarled viciously, curling his hand into a fist and slamming it against the wall in an impotent display of mindless anger. The wall was stone, it didn't break; Harry's hand was not, and Draco flinched at the dull cracking of bones. Harry didn't seem to feel it.

"Bloody hell, Potter," Draco snapped, taking his hand gently. He didn't know why he cared about his hand. Maybe because he somehow felt responsible for it. After all, he had purposely made Harry angry, if only because it was easier to understand than the other option, that strange stillness.

He carefully unfolded the broken fingers, cracked knuckles oozing blood. Harry didn't make a sound, and Draco glanced up at him chidingly. "And what did that help, Potter? Honestly, the wall doesn't care if you're pissed off. Does it hurt?"

"When it's touched," Harry replied dully, his eyes glazed over.

Draco's scowl clearly showed that he was not impressed with having his own words thrown back at him. Inspecting the cuts and fingers carefully, he pulled out his wand, holding that with one hand, the other hand flat under Harry's, so that the other boy's broken hand rested palm to palm with his own. "It might sting," he warned, but Harry didn't seem to notice the pain that was radiating from his fingers even now, so Draco doubted he'd feel the sting of mending skin and bone.

He cast the healing charms he'd learned that summer and held Harry's hand gently while it began to mend. He didn't notice that his thumb was stroking Harry's palm soothingly all the while, and neither did Harry.

"There," Draco said when it was done, letting go. "Hopefully you won't be stupid enough to take your anger out on the wall next time."

Harry's eyes slowly slid shut and he looked very weary now. "Nothing else to take it out on."

"You'll always have me for that, Potter."

Tired green eyes met his, and Harry smiled bitterly. "Will I? I won't have anything forever, Malfoy. Nothing lasts forever." He waved his hand absently. "Thank you. For fixing my hand. You're right, that was a stupid thing to do. Next time I'll punch your face in instead."

Draco grinned. "Or at least, you'll try."

It was a reluctant and small smile that Potter flashed in return, but it was genuine, and Draco was surprised. He and Potter were smiling at each other? What, honestly, was the world coming to?

"Yes. I'll try." Harry nodded and flashed another weak smile before turning and walking away almost aimlessly. Draco let him go; after all, who was Draco Malfoy to care which walls Harry Potter tried to beat up or where he chose to go when he wanted to die? No one. Draco Malfoy was no one.

***

Harry didn't go to class. What, really, was the point? If he didn't pass his fifth year, what did it matter? Nothing mattered anymore. Ironically, considering that not a week before he had decided that life was too hard and he _wanted_ to die, Harry was furious. Achingly, blindingly enraged. How dare someone seek to take his life from him? The only thing that was truly and totally his? Well, apparently not. It had never been his at all, it had just been a loan from his mother.

He should have died all those years before and because he hadn't, he was being punished now. He wished he'd never been told, wished he'd just gone to sleep the night before he turned sixteen and never woken up. Then, at least, his last two months could have been spent in that same numb sort of daze the last week had been spent in, as opposed to this blind panic.

Then again, maybe that was the point. Maybe something, the same something that had appointed Draco Malfoy his guardian, had decided that Harry deserved to know he was dying so that he _didn't_ spend his last two months that way. So that he didn't take them for granted. So that he realized he was lucky enough to have any time at all. Maybe not as much as most, but more than he was originally supposed to.

That he was wrong to want to die. Life wasn't nearly as hard as he'd thought, it was dying that was the hard part. Living when you knew for sure it wasn't forever. That was hard. Yesterday and all the days before? A piece of cake compared to this.

But Harry was too dazed and angry to think that way. To wonder if maybe he'd brought this on himself, wanting to die that way. Maybe it was that whole ‘be careful what you wished for' shit giving him what he deserved. What he'd wished for.

Instead, the only thing Harry knew was that he was going to die, and it was because his mother had been too weak to save him.

He would never remember how he came to be sitting in the Gryffindor common room alone that afternoon. The morning passed in a reckless sort of aimless daze, and there he was, sitting on the floor, playing with a knife. A stupid thing, but it had seemed brilliant at the time. Pick up the knife that Dean used to sharpen his drawing pencils with (he claimed it worked better than any other form of sharpener), and pull out the blade, and play with it.

Because Harry was dying and Harry was scared and Harry wasn't quite sure he'd ever been living at all. If he had been meant to die when he was just a baby and only his mother's spell had kept him alive this long, wasn't that some magical form of life support? What if he wasn't living at all? What if his body had been tortured by Voldemort's spell, which had warred with his mother's until the only thing left in between was a twisted body and Harry lived in that body in some way of living that wasn't quite being alive, and this wasn't real? Because how could he be living if that life _expired_? Like yogurt or cheese. Bread, even. He was perishable. Limited shelf life. He'd never really been living at all and he certainly wasn't real.

How could _this_, this sudden mortality, be _real_?

It wasn't, and Harry would prove it.

He cut himself, a slash up his forearm, not his wrist (because he didn't want to die any longer, after all) but the other side.

He wouldn't bleed; he wasn't real. This wasn't real. He wouldn't bleed.

But he did.

It was warm and bright red, and ran down his arm like ribbons of silk. Almost like the ribbons that had tangled around his ankles in his dream. He touched it and brought his finger to his lips and it tasted salty, like copper salt.

Real, then. This was real. He was real, life was real, and this wasn't all some terrible dream.

He threw the knife across the room with the force of all his rage behind it, a ragged growl that was almost a sob hissing from his throat. The knife hit the stone wall, slashed a tapestry up a bit, and clattered to the floor; it was stained with his blood.

"Accio knife," he whispered, and the knife slid across the floor and into his waiting palm. He closed it and slipped it into his pocket, and then watched his blood running from the deep cut in his arm.

Eventually, it dried to a muddy brown colour and the cut stopped bleeding. Harry let the sleeve of his robe fall back over the blood, not bothering to clean it up. He wanted to be able to look at it if ever he started believing again that This Was Not Real. Because it was. As real as anything in his life had ever been, or even more so. Because for the first time in his life, someone had finally told Harry the truth. He wasn't meant to be here, and in two months, that error would be corrected.

Harry, the perishable, would cease to exist like he should have fourteen years before.

***

He'd known that he was dying for three days, and the rage was still burning. If anything, it was hotter now. More furious. Because only three days had passed but Harry was beginning to feel like time was slipping through his hands like water. He wasn't really living anyway. Getting up and not going to class, (he didn't want to be shouted at for not doing his homework as he'd decided to quit the day he found out he wouldn't live to see his sixth year), eating, going to sleep. Nothing moved him, nothing mattered, and he was remembering why he'd wanted to die in the first place. Except that he didn't want to any longer. He just didn't want to live this way.

He didn't feel, didn't care, couldn't find anything to cling to, anything he'd really miss when he was gone, besides breathing. The simplicity of drawing breath. It was strange, calming, something he'd never noticed before. For the past three nights, Harry had lain awake listening to his own breathing and wondering what it would be like to stop.

Now, however, he was alone by the lake, throwing stones angrily into the water. Ron was busy and Hermione wasn't speaking to him, she was in a snit because he was boycotting homework. Of course, he hadn't told her why. He hadn't told anyone, and he hadn't been to visit with Sirius or Dumbledore either. He didn't need anyone to deal with this. What could anyone do for him anyway?

Whenever he found a flat stone, Harry would run his fingers over the water-worn surface and breathe deeply before throwing it hard, making it skip across the surface. It was a way to measure the minutes, and these days, all Harry seemed to do was measure them. Every second that passed was another he wouldn't ever get to have again. One step closer to his birthday. Every time a stone skipped across the lake, one less time his heart would beat. _One, two, three, sink._

Nothing mattered but skipping stones and breathing. In, skip, out, skip, in, skip, out. Easy.

Hours passed and the sun set (another sunset Harry would never see again), and it grew too dark to see the stones. Making his way back to the castle, Harry wondered what would happen if he just turned and went the other way. Walked away from this, into the forest, or maybe to Hogsmeade. Disappeared. Who would notice?

"Best bet would be to head into the forest and walk south for three days, till you get to the small village on the other side. I don't even know its name, but I saw it on a map in the library. That way, if anyone went after you, they'd assume you went to Hogsmeade and you'd have more of a chance of getting away before they dragged you back." The words were said in an absent, bored tone, and before he even turned, Harry knew who had spoken them. Only Draco could talk that way without sounding like a complete prat.

Or, if he sounded like a prat, he did it so well and Harry was so used to it that it was some how above and beyond normal levels of pratness.

The sun was setting and the light getting hazy; Harry turned slowly away from the forest to study Draco in silence. He was sitting on the front steps of the castle and met Harry's stare defiantly. Finally, Harry said, "You spend a lot of time thinking about the best way to run away?"

Draco shrugged. "I've always done that. Planned how I'd escape from anyplace I was at for more than an hour. Some call it paranoid. I call it careful. You never know when you'll need to run, after all."

Considering Draco's words for a minute, Harry shrugged, dropping down on the step beside him. "Do you smoke?" he asked.

Draco looked surprised. "No. Do you?"

"No. But I figure now's a good time to start."

"Smoking kills, you know," Draco pointed out absently.

"Not fast enough."

"You want to die fast?"

"I don't want to die at all," Harry said abruptly, and then changed the subject. "What are you doing out here anyway?"

Draco was quiet for a while, and when he spoke, his voice was laced with faint amusement. "Why, looking for you, of course, Potter. It's been days without me having to save your life from falling buckets or sweaty closets. I was beginning to think you'd died. Easy enough assumption, given that you haven't showed up for class in three days."

"You really came looking for me?" Harry was surprised and skeptical all at once.

"No, not really, you stupid sod," Draco replied, rolling his eyes. "I just wanted to be alone, needed to think, and you can't quite be alone in Slytherin House, so I came out here. What's it to you?"

"You wanted to be alone?" Harry felt oddly hurt. "I'll go then."

"No! I mean, no. Stay, if you want. You're so far beneath my notice that it hardly matters if you're here anyway."

Harry smiled a little and relaxed again. The stone steps were still warm from the sun and there was an oddly companionable silence between them. It was almost the same thing that had made him, Ron, and Hermione so close in first year. How could they take on a fully grown mountain troll together and not come out of it with some sort of friendship? In his and Malfoy's case, of course, they had other things binding them together. A series of strange coincidences, and that night on the Quidditch pitch, and Harry's broken hand.

"What are you so scared of?" Draco asked suddenly.

The tenseness came back in a heartbeat. "Excuse me?" he said coldly.

"You. You're acting like your own shadow scares you these days. Not that I care," Draco said quickly. "It's just… weird."

"I'm not afraid of anything," Harry lied.

Draco scoffed. "Come on, now, Potter. Only someone with something to fear gets as freaked out over a Dementor as you did in third year."

"Oh, really?" Harry shot back. "I heard you nearly wet yourself."

That certainly shut him up, and a few moments later, Draco mumbled, "Forget it."

Harry nodded in a satisfied sort of way and hopped up off the step, starting off in the direction of Hogsmeade.

"Are you mad?" Draco called. "I told you, if you're going to run, go the other way."

"I'm not running," Harry said absently, rolling his eyes.

"Then what are you doing?"

"Going to Hogsmeade to get some cigarettes." He was surprised when Draco, after a short pause, got to his feet and started walking with him, but he didn't question it.

***

"It's late, you know," Draco pointed out, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets. "We're going to get into so much trouble for this."

Harry looked surprised. "Do you care?"

Shrugging, Draco replied, "I suppose not."

"Besides, you didn't have to come with me."

"Nothing better to do."

"Oh."

Draco glanced at Harry out of the corner of his eye, but the other boy seemed to be ignoring him. That was perfectly fine, of course, Draco had hardly decided to accompany him to Hogsmeade for the pleasure of his company. It just seemed a better way to spend the night, as opposed to sitting around alone and moping about Lisa, who hadn't spoken to him at all since she'd dumped him.

Also, something about the whole thing excited him. Breaking the rules this way, as if he didn't care that Dumbledore would most likely write to his father about it. Pretending that the very idea of Lucius Malfoy knowing that his son had deliberately broken the rules at school this way did not terrify Draco. Because Malfoys followed rules, or at least never let anyone know when they didn't. Malfoys always kept up the public appearance of following the law and being upstanding witches and wizards. Malfoys never got detention.

Draco still remembered the weeks of punishment he'd received for that detention in first year. He'd been grounded for two weeks, unable to leave his bedroom!

Of course, he had rarely left his bedroom when he was home, before that summer. It just hadn't seemed very worthwhile. Why bother leaving his room, there was nothing to do? Following that two weeks of being forced to stay there, however, Draco had started spending more and more time outside instead. There were miles and miles of formal gardens around the manor, rose gardens, rock gardens, water gardens, and dangerous shrub gardens, and he'd spent the rest of that summer and all of the ones following it out there alone, watching the fish in the ponds and fountains or walking aimlessly. He hated being indoors now, more than anything. It felt like a prison.

He glanced at Harry again, this time thoughtfully. He'd heard that the other boy's Muggle relatives had locked him in a _cupboard_. Had made him sleep there. He wondered if Harry craved being outdoors as much as Draco did.

Of course, Draco only craved the formal gardens. He didn't much like open fields or wild forests. They had no symmetry, no pattern to them, and that made him nervous.

Harry…. He bet Harry craved the uncultivated sorts of outdoors, and wildflowers. The unpredictable sort. Formal gardens would bore him, Draco knew.

And then he started wondering how he knew. And just why he cared.

He cleared his throat and Harry glanced at him questioningly. "What?"

"I was just thinking," Draco said with a shrug. "We're nearly there."

"I know," Harry replied.

Hogsmeade at night was different than either Draco or Harry could have ever imagined. The joke shops and candy shops were closed, their lights out, and the only buildings lit up were the ones that they hadn't much paid attention to on their school trips. The ones that the supervising professors who had accompanied them there would have died rather than let them enter. Dirty looking little pubs and strip clubs, casinos and dance halls.

Draco hesitated, looking appalled. Malfoys never went to these places, they only ever went to high class parties and exclusive clubs.

Harry, however, didn't pause. He walked straight into town, ignored the women calling lewd things from an upstairs window of one of the clubs, and made his way towards the store that was lit up with greasy lanterns at the end of the street. Draco followed, but only after the women in the window had noticed him and started calling him ‘pretty boy' and offering him nasty things for free.

Malfoys, after all, did not accept charity.

"Potter!" Draco cried, running after him. "Wait!"

Harry was grinning when Draco caught up with him, and Draco wondered for a moment when Harry had become the wild one and why Draco was left running after him so often.

They went into the store and this time, Draco stuck close to Harry, regretting this trip to Hogsmeade more than anything else he'd ever done.

"D'you sell cigarettes?" Harry asked the shopkeeper, his voice lower than normal, trying to sound casual.

The man behind the counter studied Harry with narrowed eyes and then flickered his gaze over to Draco. "What sort?" he asked after a long pause.

This time, Harry faltered. He didn't smoke, after all, and had no idea. "Umm," he said, glancing pleadingly at Draco.

"Marlboro Lights," Draco said quickly.

The shopkeeper smirked. "That's a girly brand."

"They're for my mother," Draco lied.

"Oh really? And just who is your mother?"

"Narcissa Malfoy."

There was a tense silence, and Draco shifted uncomfortably. He knew his mother sometimes came into Hogsmeade to go to a specialty tailor there, but he had no idea if she'd ever been here or bought cigarettes here. If she had, he knew, she'd be remembered. Narcissa Malfoy was the type of lady no one ever forgot.

Finally, the man tossed a pack onto the counter and Harry paid quickly before scooping it up and walking out, Draco following. Outside, Harry smacked his arm.

"You got me a girly brand!"

"It's what my mum smokes!" Draco cried. "And you're lucky I was there to help, else he'd have just told you to piss off. Now let's get out of here, I don't like Hogsmeade at night."

"Aww, is Draco scared?"

"No, but you should be."

"I should? Why?"

"Because if you don't stop that I'm gonna kick your arse!"

Harry laughed. "Like to see you try, Malfoy!" And then, still laughing, he took off running down the street the way they'd come.

"Bloody sodding hell," Draco mumbled. "Chasing after the stupid sod again? Honestly." But still, he took off at a quick run, following Harry out of Hogsmeade.

They ran until they were out of breath and half way back to Hogwarts.

***

"C'mon," Harry said, heading towards the lake when they were back on Hogwarts grounds.

"What? Where are you going?" Draco asked, stopping and staring after Harry.

He turned so that he was walking backwards and said, "To smoke them, of course. C'mon."

Being invited to smoke a cigarette with Harry Potter was something new and alien to Draco, and for a long, long while, he considered laughing and walking away.

Harry saw it in his face and shrugged easily, turning away.

"Damn it," Draco sighed to himself. "How the hell did I let this happen? Following Potter all sodding day." Then, louder, he called, "Wait up then!"

They walked to the pier where Hagrid docked the boats that carried the first years across the lake, kicking off their shoes and sitting on the edge. Their feet hung a few inches above the black surface of the lake, thankfully; Draco didn't want to tempt the squid by dangling his feet in the water.

"Here," Harry said, handing him a cigarette and taking one himself. They both held them awkwardly, neither having ever smoked before. "How do we light them? I haven't got a lighter."

"A what?" Draco asked, rolling his eyes. "Is that some Muggle contraption? Honestly, Potter." He used his wand, repeating the spell he'd heard his mother cast a thousand times to light her cigarettes.

Seconds later, both holding their lit cigarettes and staring at them in a disgusted sort of wonder, Draco and Harry didn't look at each other. After all, Draco didn't want Harry to know that he'd never done this before and Harry didn't want Draco to know that he had no idea what to do next.

It was Harry who gathered the courage to try it first, and he stuck the cigarette between his lips and sucked.

For a long moment, Draco watched his face nervously for a reaction. "Shit!" Harry cried, coughing and hacking, his eyes watering. "Holy shit." After he'd stopped coughing, he glanced at Draco, who was still watching him with wide eyes. "Go on then."

"After that?" Draco cried.

"Scared?"

Harry watched Draco's eyes narrow defiantly and then the other boy brought the cigarette up to his lips and took a cautious puff. "Ohmygod," he gasped, wincing. "That's vile."

"I kinda like it," Harry said airily, taking another long drag and only coughing half as much this time.

It was a warm night, the stars reflecting on the smooth surface of the lake, and the only sound was the lapping of water and the distant chirping of crickets. Draco, with a glance at Harry, took another drag of his cigarette, his eyes watering with the effort it took not to cough.

They sat there in silence for a long while, until Harry had smoked his entire cigarette and Draco had let his burn down. Then, Harry sighed.

"We should go back," he said, sounding suddenly very tired.

It was late, and Draco, at least, fully intended to go to class the next day. "Yeah," he said, reluctant to return to his common room. It was quieter out here, and he had come to crave quiet lately.

Still, he got to his feet and turned to make his way back up to the castle.

There was something large and black streaking towards them, and Draco yelped. "What is that?!"

Harry glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. "Piss off!" he called. The creature (Draco could see it well enough to tell it was a huge black dog) paused and looked, somehow, hurt. "I'm coming back, no need to drag me."

"Potter," Draco hissed, trying not to move to attract the monster's attention. "What the hell is it?"

The dog looked at him and then back at Harry and came a little closer, pawing the ground. Harry sighed. "If you're going to lecture me, Sirius, do it in English. You can trust him."

"Trust me?" Draco cried, offended. "Potter, you can't trust me! I'm a Malfoy!"

Harry gave him a strange look. "That's right, you are. I'd forgotten."

The dog, however, seemed to take Harry at his word, and a second later, wasn't there at all. Instead, a man was there, one that Draco vaguely recognized. He stiffened. "Potter," he whispered. "We've got to run."

"Why?" Harry asked, frowning.

"It's Sirius Black! He's a murderer!"

"He's… my godfather."

"What?"

"Just…trust me, alright?"

"I don't trust anyone. I'm a Malfoy, I'm not supposed to."

Harry just glared at him before turning back to Sirius. "What?" he asked rudely, and Draco wondered idly if Harry treated all his relatives that way. No wonder he'd been locked under the stairs!

"Harry," Sirius said, sounding weary. "We've been searching everywhere for you. You had no right to sneak off that way."

"No right? I had every right!" Harry cried.

Sirius ignored his outburst. "Despite everything that's happened lately, Harry, you can't go about acting like this. These little fits of rebellion, not going to class. What's that going to prove?"

"What's going to class going to prove? A waste of my time." Harry crossed his arms over his chest sullenly.

"Harry," Sirius snapped warningly. He turned his eyes to Draco now. "And if this friendship with Malfoy is having such a bad influence on you, I'm going to have to forbid you from being around him."

"Friendship?" Draco sneered.

"Forbid me?" Harry cried.

"I understand that you're hurt and you're scared, Harry!" Sirius cried. "Trust me, I do!"

"How the hell would you understand?" Harry hissed, and Draco swallowed heavily, suddenly realize that he had no idea what they were talking about.

"Ten years in Azkaban is enough to make anyone hurt and afraid."

"Ah ha!" Draco crowed. "I knew it! You are Sirius Black."

Harry and Sirius both turned to look at him blankly. "Umm, Malfoy," Harry said finally. "We already knew that. It's fine, forget it."

"But he's a murderer!"

"He's not. Forget it. Just…" Harry waved an irritated hand at him and turned back to Sirius. "Shut up for a minute."

"Excuse me?" Draco cried, but no one was paying attention. Sirius and Harry were arguing again, and no one was there to witness Draco's fury at having been told to shut up. By Harry sodding Potter of all people. It wasn't right!

"That's it," Draco announced, but again, no one noticed. "I'm going in now. Remind me never to tag along on one of your little adventures again, Potter."

Finally, Sirius looked at him. "I'm afraid not, Malfoy. Dumbledore wants to see both of you in his office. I expect he'll want to give you detention or something."

Draco's eyes widened and he started shaking, just a little bit. "Detention?" he whispered, suddenly remembering his father's reaction to his last detention. Two more weeks of being confined to his rooms? No, no, no.

"Are you alright, Malfoy?" Harry asked, frowning. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Fine," Draco said faintly, suddenly wishing he had let his feet dangle in the lake water. Better the meal of a squid than at the mercy of his father.

***

Harry would have slept in the next day, exhausted from his late night trip to Hogsmeade, but, while everyone else was at breakfast, Hermione snuck up into his room and threw his bed hangings open.

She was furious. "Harry Potter, you wake up this instant," she hissed, yanking his covers back.

"Hermione?" Harry said sleepily, blinking. "What… what happened?"

"What happened is that you're still in bed, going to be late for class, and I heard the most interesting rumour at breakfast! Apparently a certain Harry Potter followed Draco Malfoy to Hogsmeade in the middle of the night!"

"Followed?" Harry mumbled indignantly. "I certainly did not follow! He followed me!"

"That's besides the point, Harry!" She sat on the bed and studied him for a long moment. "What's going on with you, Harry? I feel like I don't know you anymore. Not doing your homework, not going to class, going to Hogsmeade. Why did you go, anyway?"

"Bought cigarettes," he said absently.

"What? Harry. Honey. You don't smoke."

"I know." He laughed a little. "Neither does Malfoy."

"I don't care one whit what Malfoy does or doesn't do! Honestly, if I find out that it's because of his influence that you've gone mad the way you have, Harry, I'll kill him."

"Why does everyone think that because Draco Malfoy followed me to Hogsmeade I'm going to start being influenced by him?" Harry cried, reaching for his glasses. "Honestly!"

"Well, you've been acting more like him than yourself lately."

"How have I been acting like him?"

"Not going to class."

"He always goes to class."

"Not doing your homework."

"He's always got his homework done."

She looked irritated. "That proves it! You've been acting worse than he has! It's his fault."

Falling back onto his bed, Harry moaned. "How is anything I do Malfoy's fault?"

There was a long silence, and then she said huffily, "I don't know. But as soon as I figure it out, I'll kill him."

"He didn't do anything. He was just…there." Which was true. Draco hadn't purposely done anything to Harry lately. Not the armor incident or the lightning incident or the closet incident, or any of the rest. He'd just… been there.

And Ron and Hermione hadn't even managed that much.

Guilt made Harry flush a little at that thought. "Hermione, listen. I'm fine. Everything's like it always has been." Lies. Harry was never good at lying.

Hermione knew it. "I'm worried, that's all," she said softly. "You've been acting so strangely. If you need to talk, Harry, I'm here."

"Everyone's here to listen if I have to talk," Harry whispered, suddenly very tired. "What if I don't want to talk?"

"Then what do you want?"

"To live forever."

She was quiet for a while, and then said, "Is that what this is? Are you afraid that You-Know-Who is going to hurt you?"

Harry smiled, but it was tinged with bitterness. "I haven't thought about Voldemort in days."

Still looking perplexed, Hermione said, "Then what? Talk to me, Harry. How am I supposed to help you if you won't talk to me?"

"Just… be there. That's help enough." He smiled brightly, a fake smile that Draco would have seen through in an instant.

Hermione looked reassured. "Well, I'll always be here, you know that. Now get dressed, I promised Dumbledore I'd make sure you went to class."

Feeling a little betrayed, Harry still let her prod him out of bed and into his robes. He didn't want to go to class, it was a waste of his time. But still, to stop her questions, he'd go. It was better than the alternative, better than telling her everything. Because Harry still hadn't said it out loud and he knew instinctively that when he did, everything would crack and the fragile anger he'd been building up to hide behind would crumble and he'd have nothing left to stand on.

***

It rained for the next week, and Harry allowed his mood to reflect the weather. He grew quiet and depressed, prone to drifting off in class and staring out the windows at the rain rather than pay attention to the professors. But at least he was attending class, having been made to feel guilty for not attending it by Sirius and Hermione. Dumbledore had also decided that, as part of his punishment for running off to Hogsmeade and smoking on school grounds, he was to be forced to spend an hour talking to Sirius a week.

Funny, before all of this, Harry would have spent every waking hour with Sirius and enjoyed every minute of it.

The rest of his punishment was to be served in a series of three detentions. Draco got the same, three detentions, only instead of being forced into a show-and-tell with Sirius, Dumbledore sent a letter to his father.

For a moment there, after Dumbledore had announced that he would be owling Lucius, Harry had been afraid that Draco was going to faint or cry or something. The other boy had gone deathly pale. All he'd mumbled, however, was a quiet, ‘yes, sir'. Since then, he hadn't so much as glanced at Harry.

It was strange; he'd gotten Draco Malfoy into trouble. Harry supposed he should feel some sort of accomplishment over that, but he didn't. All he felt was desperately lonely.

His first session with Sirius had been, in Harry's eyes, a complete failure. He sat on an armchair in the room Dumbledore had secretly converted to a bedroom for Sirius' use, and Sirius sat on another chair, and they'd stared at each other, played with loose threads on the chair arms, avoided each other eyes, and made stilted conversation.

Harry had never thought about it before, about what it must be like for Sirius. He'd only ever thought that Sirius was sort of like a father to him, or supposed to be. He'd never known how to respond to that, he'd never had a father. Sirius had never had a son, and the more Harry considered this, the more he felt he understood Sirius and how difficult this must be for him. He'd never been a father, Harry had never been a son. It wasn't easy for either of them.

And he certainly wasn't in the mood to make it any easier.

It was only at the end of the hour, when Sirius asked rather desperately, "So how did you and Malfoy become friends?" that Harry showed any interest in the conversation.

"Oh, we're not friends," he said, smirking at the very idea.

"I should hope not. He is Lucius Malfoy's son."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, nothing, it's just —"

"We're not friends anyway, so forget it."

"What are you then?"

"Blood enemies," Harry replied matter-of-factly.

"Who smoke together on the pier at all hours of the night?"

"Precisely."

"Ah."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Harry studied Sirius suspiciously for a long moment and then noticed the time. "Right. That was an hour. Can I go now?"

Looking defeated, Sirius nodded. "If you ever need to talk —"

"I know. You'll be here. You and everyone else. Just waiting for me to talk. I don't want to talk."

"Then what do you want, Harry?"

It was the same thing Hermione had asked, and Harry thought carefully before replying, "I'll let you know when I've figured that out for myself."

***

It was a tense week for Draco, after Dumbledore had sent the owl to his father, telling him that Draco had received three detentions. Waiting for his father's reply was one of the most terrible experiences of Draco's fifteen years. It wasn't that he was expecting a Howler. His father would never resort to something that crass. In fact, he knew that the reply, when it came, would be stilted and short, barely more of an acknowledgement and a promise of punishment in the three weeks before Draco returned home. He could only imagine the sort of punishment. Maybe six weeks in his room! That was nearly forever!

Nearly a week after the late night trip to Hogsmeade, on a Friday morning, Draco's eagle owl finally returned from Malfoy Manor, a parchment tied to its leg.

It arrived at breakfast, swooping in with the other owls at mail time, and landing on his arm the way it had been trained, careful not to pinch.

For a long moment, Draco just stared at the owl, and it looked calmly back. Malfoy owls did not flap about for treats, it wasn't seemly. Finally, sighing, Draco took the parchment and fed the owl a bit of bread, stroking its feathers and wondering why the owl seemed to be sympathetic. Maybe because Draco was that desperate for sympathy.

Ever since that night, his housemates had tried to get him to tell them what had happened, but he hadn't wanted to talk about it. Not the trip to Hogsmeade, the punishment, or what Harry had to do with it. They'd given up by now, because no one really bothered Draco when he made it clear he did not wish to be bothered.

The owl flew off and Draco tucked the parchment into his pocket without looking at it. Time enough to learn his fate later.

Breakfast eaten, he made his way out of the Hall and back to his room to gather his books. Forcing himself not to dwell on the letter, Draco concentrated harder than ever on his classes, except for Transfiguration, which had never interested him. In that class, he let his mind wander; he was sitting in the last row and McGonagall rarely paid attention to him. So, his chin resting in his hand, he was content to stare out the window at the gray morning, rain running in rivers down the windowpane.

"I take it," McGonagall drawled at some point during the lesson, "That whatever you're looking at out there must be incredibly interesting to draw your attention from my lecture."

Draco jerked around to face her, certain she was speaking to him, but she hadn't been. It was Harry she was talking to, Harry who was sitting with his chin resting in his hand and staring out at the rain in almost the mirror image of the way Draco had been moments before. That, strangely, was more disconcerting than had she been chiding him. The thought that he and Harry had shared anything as simple as studying rain running down a windowpane was more intimate somehow then anything else that had ever happened between them. Even that strange incident on the Quidditch pitch.

"Harry," Hermione hissed, elbowing him, and Harry turned towards the professor with a start. He didn't look apologetic, however, only smiled absently and nodded, as though giving her permission to continue the lesson.

After class, while the other Slytherins made their way to History of Magic, Draco went the other way, having realized he'd forgotten his textbook. He followed the Gryffindors part of the way, they were on their way to Herbology, and then turned down the hall that would bring him to the Dungeons.

"Malfoy! Wait a sec!"

He tensed up and turned slowly, scowling. "Potter," he said coldly as the other boy hurried up behind him. "What the sodding hell do you want?"

Harry looked startled. "It's just… you dropped this."

It was his father's letter; Draco had forgotten all about it. He snatched it from Harry's hand and turned to go.

"Wait," Harry stammered.

"What?"

"Are you angry at me? You've been avoiding me all week."

Draco had never been so startled and honestly bewildered. "Avoiding you? I've never sought you out before, how could I be avoiding you now?"

Blinking, Harry said slowly, "Well, you've never deliberately avoided me either."

"Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't, of course… I just…"

"You didn't let your sodding godfather the vicious murderer convince you that we were friends, did you?" Draco sneered.

Harry looked hurt and Draco's eyes widened a bit at that. "No, of course not," he said quietly. "I just wanted to know if I'd done anything to make you angry."

"Done anything? Potter, your very existence pisses me off beyond all reason! You're a magnet for the most rotten things imaginable and they tend to happen to me whenever I'm around you! If I am avoiding you, is there any wonder?"

"Well, I… I never… I…" he trailed off. "Magnet for the most rotten things imaginable?" He looked, strangely, morbidly amused by that. "You have no idea."

"I do have an idea, that's just the thing. I've never had such a string of bad luck as I have these last few weeks whenever you're around. No wonder I've been avoiding you!"

"So you admit it."

"Of course I admit it!" Feeling exasperated, irritated, and knowing that he was going to be late for class, Draco started edging down the hall.

"But I thought…"

"Thought what? Potter, honestly, what do you expect from me? What do you want?"

"That's…funny," Harry said in a tiny voice. "You're the third person who's asked me that this week."

"Then maybe you should start thinking about it," Draco snapped.

"I just… I'm…" His eyes were huge and sparkling almost as though he were going to cry, and Harry's face was very pale now. "I'm sort of lonely. That's all."

"Sort of lonely? Since when have I cared that you were lonely? Did I accidentally drink some polyjuice potion or something to be transfigured to look like someone who cares? Did I grow red hair and freckles in the middle of the night? Oh, please tell me I didn't!"

Harry took a shaky step back. "Forget it," he whispered. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore." He ran a trembling hand through his hair, the sleeve of his robe slipping down a bit, and Draco blinked. It looked like his arm was covered in blood…

But he lowered his hand before Draco could be sure and, after all, like he'd said, it wasn't his job to care.

"Right," Draco said, swallowing a sudden burst of nervousness and wishing things hadn't changed however they had in the last few weeks. It was so much simpler when all he wanted to do was make Harry miserable. Now, he just never wanted to see him again. "I've got to go."

"Right." Harry nodded, looking suddenly very young and sad. "We've got our first detention tonight, with Filch."

Draco scowled. "I know."

"Umm, good bye then."

Frowning, Draco said rather awkwardly, "Yeah." Then he turned, and hurried away.

***

Harry was incredibly tired. Not the sort of tired that was ‘I need to sleep. I can't keep my eyes open.' but more like ‘I don't want to be here anymore. I don't think I can stand to keep my eyes open without them welling up with tears.' Ever since Hermione had started forcing him to go to class and his first session with Sirius, all rebelliousness had drained out of him and he'd just been existing, a shattered reflection of Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Sort Of.

As he trudged to the Great Hall to meet up with Draco and Filch for that night's detention, Harry watched the cracks and scars in the stone floor as his feet passed over them. Another way to measure heartbeats. Skipping stones, raindrops, footsteps.

They were assigned to scrub the flagstones in the entry hall. Harry, not really wanting to prompt Draco into another conversation like the one earlier, went about his work silently, on his hands and knees with a sponge. The only sound was the scraping of the sponge against stone, and it was only a few minutes later that Harry realized that he was the only one scrubbing. He glanced up at Draco.

"What?"

The other boy looked appalled. "Scrubbing?" he said faintly. "On hands and knees?"

"Well, yes. Filch said that's what we've got to do."

"But…I've never scrubbed a floor in my life!"

"It's not hard." Harry rolled his eyes.

"It's the principle of the thing! Malfoys don't scrub floors."

"Well I'm certainly not doing it all myself."

Draco snorted, sitting down on the floor on the other side of the spot Harry had been scrubbing. "Why not? This is all your fault."

"Nothing is ever your fault, is it?" Harry snapped, suddenly furious. He got to his feet and threw the sponge to the floor, splattering Draco with the water.

Draco didn't notice. He was staring at Harry's arm with something like shock in his eyes. "Potter," he said quietly, getting to his feet. "You've gone mad, haven't you?"

Pausing, Harry's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Not bothering with a reply, Draco reached out and grabbed Harry's hand. Before the other boy could jerk it away, he'd pushed the sleeve back, exposing Harry's arm. There were cuts all over it, not a ladder of cuts that would have given evidence to a suicide attempt, but more random cuts, varying in depth and length, as if Harry had been painting with a knife on his arm. It was still crusted with blood.

Harry yanked his arm out of Draco's reach and turned away. "Potter," Draco snarled. "Just what the hell is your problem?"

"I haven't got one."

"What, as soon as I'm not around for a bit to save your worthless life, you start up with something stupid like that? Is that it?"

"It has nothing to do with you," Harry screamed, spinning on his heel and shoving Draco hard. The other boy stumbled backwards and stepped on the sponge, his feet flying out from under him. He fell back and smacked his head on the stone floor with a dull crack.

There was a long pause, during which nothing moved. Harry froze, staring at Draco, who lay very still on the ground, his eyes open, body immobile.

"Oh god," Harry breathed shakily, falling to his knees beside him. "Oh god, Malfoy, I didn't mean to. Malfoy, don't be dead. Oh god." He was touching Draco's face, stroking it desperately, nearly crying, and it was only when Draco's eyes fluttered a bit and he blinked that Harry stopped, holding his breath. His hands were still touching him, one lifting his head up off the floor and pillowing it, the other on his cheek.

"I think…" Draco said gingerly, wincing. "I broke something."

"Broke what?" Harry whimpered.

"My head?"

Harry flexed his fingers, checking for blood, but there was none. "I don't think so," he said cautiously. "Do you want me to get Pomfrey? I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't…"

"Potter," Draco mumbled, closing his eyes. "Shut up a moment. And don't you dare get Pomfrey. She hates me, ever since third year."

"When you pretended to have an injured arm to get out of that Quidditch match and have Hagrid's Hippogriff executed?" Harry said, rather matter-of-factly.

His eyes opened and they glittered with amusement. "Yeah."

Harry bit his lip, blinking so that he wouldn't burst into tears. "I'm so sorry, Malfoy, I didn't mean to make you fall, I thought you'd died."

"I'm alright," Draco said, smirking faintly. "I promise. You can stop stroking my cheek. Honestly, Potter…"

With a yelp, Harry snatched both of his hands back, and Draco's head fell back onto the stone floor with another dull thump.

"Shit," Draco moaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

Harry only felt slightly remorseful this time. "Let me help you sit up," he said, pulling Draco gently up by the shoulders. "Alright?"

"Give me my wand," Draco whimpered. "My head hurts, I'll charm it away."

Searching Draco's robes for his wand was a novel experience for Harry, who was blushing a little by the time he'd found it and hoping that Draco wouldn't notice. "Here," he mumbled, shoving it into Draco's hand.

A few moments later, Draco's headache was gone, and he got to his feet unsteadily. Harry watched him worriedly. "I really am sorry," he said again.

A calculating look came into Draco's eyes. "How sorry?"

"What…what do you mean?"

"Sorry enough to scrub the floor by yourself?"

Harry glanced around the large entrance hall doubtfully. But he had nearly killed Draco… "I guess."

"Brilliant! I'll wait outside, come get me when you're done."

"Outside? But it's raining out!"

"What have you got against rain? I saw you out in that thunderstorm, nearly getting hit by lightning," Draco snorted.

"I do like rain! I love rain. I just thought it would offend you. It's not that orderly and neat. You seem to like things that are orderly and neat."

"I do. But there are exceptions." He grinned. "But if you like rain so much, come with me."

"But the floors!"

"Since when does Harry Potter care about rules? That whole Hogsmeade thing was your idea."

"Since when doesn't Draco Malfoy care about them?" Harry snapped back.

Draco shrugged. "Since I'm already due to be murdered by my father for breaking them. What worse can he do to me?"

"He's going to kill you?"

"If you don't kill me first," Draco said teasingly.

Harry stared at him, unsure of how to deal with him when he was being playful. "If we don't clean the floors, we'll be in detention forever."

"And we can ditch all those ones too. Come on, this is hardly the behavior of someone who randomly decides to walk to Hogsmeade to buy cigarettes."

"You want me to be that Harry?"

"I do. I rather liked him."

"Liked him?"

Draco hurried to continue, "Well, not in the friendly sort of way. More in the, ‘hey, that's pretty impressive, this kid's pretty cool. If only he weren't such a snotty, self-righteous Gryffindor sod most of the time' — Hey!"

Harry, who had just shoved Draco lightly, smirked. "You deserved it, Malfoy." He glanced around at the sponges and the soapy bucket. "Fuck this. Let's go."

It was raining hard, though there was no thunder or lightning in the sky, and Harry leapt off the stairs, turning his face up to the rain and grinning widely. Draco laughed and followed, no longer caring that he seemed to always be tagging along after him.

***

"Come on!" Harry shouted, running across the grounds and into the darkness. Draco could barely see him yank his shirt off over his head and toss it to the ground as he ran.

"Where are you going?" Draco called, even as he followed at a run, grinning and no longer caring that he was following Harry Potter again in the middle of the night when he'd be punished severely for it. After all, this time it had been his idea and that somehow made it more acceptable.

Harry hadn't responded to his question, and Draco figured he hadn't even heard it. He couldn't see the other boy any longer but knew where he had gone anyway: down to the lake.

He was soaked by the time he got down there, but Draco didn't mind. He was, however, appalled when he stepped onto the pier.

Harry's trousers, shoes, socks, glasses, and boxers were scattered all over it and the boy was nowhere in sight.

"Harry?" Draco called nervously. There was a splash from the lake and a burst of bubbling laughter. "Oh, bollocks," he mumbled.

"Come in," Harry shouted, and Draco could barely see his head bobbing on the surface of the lake.

"I don't think so!" Draco replied firmly.

"Why?"

"I don't swim!"

"You can't _swim_?"

"No, I just _don't_."

"Are you scared?"

"Well, there is a giant squid in that lake, you know."

"You're afraid of the _squid_." It wasn't a question, and Harry was laughing, that carefree giggle again. It was most distracting. "I've been all over this lake, last year, and it didn't bother me. It's fine."

"I don't think so." Draco crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. _There was no way he was going in that lake. No sodding way._

There was a pause, and then Harry shrieked, "Oh my god! The squid! It's got my leg! Ahhh!" And then he went under.

"Oh _shit_." Draco didn't pause to think about why it mattered if Harry was eaten by the squid. All he knew was that in the next instant, still dressed in his robes, he was running and leaping off the edge of the pier, ready to battle the squid to save Harry's life.

"Potter!" he cried, after surfacing and pushing his hair out of his face. "Where are you?" The weight of his robes was pulling him down, and he could barely stay afloat.

A few feet away, Harry surfaced.

Draco started shouting. "You stupid idiot, I told you that the squid would —" He suddenly realized that Harry was laughing and felt like a fool. "You tricked me."

Harry just kept laughing.

Scowling, Draco snapped, "Help me back to the dock."

"I thought you could swim," Harry snickered.

"I can!" Draco growled. "But my robes are soaked and heavy and I can't…" Even as he said it, he was fighting to stay above the water.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Harry cried. "You're still wearing your sodding robes?" Swimming closer, he grabbed Draco's arm and pulled him near, wrapping Draco's arm around his neck. "Hold on to me, I'll keep you up," he commanded, seeming completely oblivious to the fact that he'd just tugged Draco against his naked chest. Naked body, for that matter.

Draco was not so oblivious and the sheer strangeness of it caused him to panic and fight against him.

"I'm not trying to drown you!" Harry snapped. "Stop that, just hold on, I'll pull you back to the pier."

Breathing heavily, Draco shook his head, unable to form words to explain how much he loathed being pinned against a naked, wet Harry. "Oh god," he moaned weakly.

"What?" Harry asked, alarmed. "Are you alright? We're nearly there. Oh, fuck this…" With that, he started jerking at the buttons of Draco's robes.

"_What are you doing?_" Draco shrieked.

"You're too heavy, I can't pull you, you're dragging _me_ under!" Harry cried. "Take your robes off."

"I've got nothing underneath." Draco's face had turned crimson and he couldn't look at Harry, which was hard enough, given the fact that Harry was still holding him pinned against his chest.

"So? Honestly, it's not like I haven't seen you naked before," Harry said, exasperated.

"_What_?"

"What? Oh!" Harry's eyes widened. "Umm. Oops. Oh my god, is that the giant squid?"

"Where?!" Draco's panic gave him the force he needed to pull away, spinning around and looking for the squid. It wasn't there, but that didn't matter, because the dead weight of his robes pulled him under then, his mouth still opened as he panted in terror. Water filled it and he swallowed instinctively, fighting the swirling blackness, unable to breathe.

Harry tugged him back to the surface. "Honestly," he chided, as he held Draco afloat while the other boy coughed up the water. "You're afraid of everything!"

"I am not!" Draco cried when he'd caught his breath. "I'm only afraid of two things. My father, and Vold… You-Know-Who."

Harry gave him a strange look but didn't ask. Instead, he said, "And getting detention."

"Doesn't count. It isn't the detention that scares me, it's my father's reaction."

"And the squid."

"It's a _giant sodding squid_! Anyone who isn't afraid of that is _mad_!"

He suddenly noticed that, as he was talking, Harry, who was holding Draco up now from behind, his arms wrapped around Draco's chest, was undoing the rest of his robes.

"And what the hell did you mean, you've seen me naked? In your dreams, Potter," he snarled, slapping the hands away and finishing it himself. After all, it wasn't like he had a choice. Besides, he wasn't _scared_ of this.

"Hardly," Harry snickered, letting Draco finish undoing his robes. "Actually, it was earlier this year. Umm. See, my Quidditch team had a bet going on…"

"A bet that involved seeing me naked?" Draco snapped indignantly.

"No!" Harry laughed. "That was an accident. See, I lost the bet, and the deal had been, whoever lost, had to sneak up inside the ventilation pipes and crawl over your changing room, and spy on your Quidditch strategy. Sure death, if I was caught. But I guess… your changing rooms are set up opposite to ours, and instead of crawling over the changing room after our match, I ended up crawling over the…" he cleared his throat delicately. "Showers."

Draco, who'd been struggling to pull his arms out of the sleeves of his robes, froze. "Oh my god," he moaned.

"You were the only one in there."

"I always wait until everyone's done before I go for my shower. ‘Malfoys always shower alone'," he recited, quoting his father.

"Yes, well. I promise, it was an accident, and it's not like I stayed there and watched after I realized what I was looking at. I mean, no offense, but watching you shower is hardly one of my fantasies."

Draco, his entire body burning with humiliation, jerked out of his robes and swam away quickly, lest Harry catch a glimpse of his nearly naked body. He was still wearing his boxers and defiantly swore to himself that there was no _way_ he was letting Harry talk him into removing those.

Harry swam to the pier and tossed his robes up there, and then swam back, careful to keep his distance. He was grinning like a madman.

"You do this often, then?" Draco asked, treading water. "Swim naked in the rain in the middle of the night?"

"No. I've never swum in the lake in the middle of the day even, except that Triwizard thing. I was always afraid of the giant squid…"

Draco's eyes widened. "_What_? You said that it wouldn't bother us!"

"I did not! I'm just not scared of the fact that it might."

"Why the hell not?" Draco was already swimming frantically for the pier.

"Don't see the point, really."

Pausing, he turned back, studying Harry as best he could in the darkness. "You've suddenly decided to take up smoking and go swimming with giant squids in the middle of the night not wearing any clothing," he said quietly, swimming back. Before Harry could guess his intention, he'd grabbed his hand, pulling his arm out of the water so he could see the cuts. The blood was washed away now, but the cuts were still there, raw and ragged. "Not to mention slicing up your arm. What happened to change you this way?"

Harry looked very solemn but didn't reply.

Tracing the cuts with light fingertips, Draco studied them in silence and then whispered, "What on earth would possess you to do this to yourself?"

"I wanted to prove that I was real," Harry replied thickly.

Draco looked at him sharply, but Harry looked so honestly miserable that he sighed. "And what did you prove?" he asked in an almost gentle voice, not bothering to wonder why he was being gentle. If he started thinking about that, he'd start wondering why he was swimming in his boxers with a naked Harry Potter, and then he'd go mad. If he wasn't crazy already.

Harry carefully pulled his arm away, studying the cuts himself and then saying rather dreamily, "That I am. For now at least."

Nodding once, Draco smiled faintly.

Green eyes rose to his again, and Harry said, "So then. Why is the son of Voldemort's favourite pet afraid of the Dark Lord himself?"

Draco's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"What? You think you're the only one who gets to ask the difficult questions?"

Draco panicked for a moment and then moaned and said weakly, "My head… I think my headache's coming back. You know, from having my head slammed into the stone floor after you pushed me in an unprovoked attack upon my person."

Harry laughed and sent a wave of water into Draco's face. "Yeah right. You always were a drama queen, Malfoy."

With a squeal of outrage, Draco lifted both hands to Harry's shoulders and shoved him under the water, quickly diving beneath the surface and swimming away quickly before the other boy had made it back up.

A full out water fight, in the rain in the lake in the middle of the night, erupted then, and both boys were rather lucky that this had never happened before and the giant squid was rather afraid of new things. It stayed at the bottom of the lake, twitching nervously at every burst of laughter, relieved when, hours later, both boys swam back to the pier and left.

***

Harry was grinning proudly as he came down the stairs for his shower the next day. Humming to himself as he washed the lake slime out of his hair and off his body, he cheerfully decided that it was time for a shave and did so quickly before running a hand through his wet hair and studying his face.

He didn't look older. Still a little boy. In fact, he looked strangely younger. It was his eyes, he decided. They were glittering in a way that disguised the fact that underneath all of that, they were older than they should have been.

Doing her homework in the common room, Hermione glanced up at him a few moments later. She dropped her quill and stared.

"Harry?" she asked hesitantly. "Are you alright?"

He faltered a bit. "Why? Do I look sick or something?"

"No, it's just… you look… different." She frowned thoughtfully, tilting her head and studying him critically. Then she smiled a bit. "Oh. You're smiling. I haven't seen you smile like that in days. Was detention that good?"

"Umm." His smiled turned sheepish. "Well. I suppose. I nearly killed Malfoy."

She laughed. "Did you? I would have liked to see that!" Studying his face again, she grinned. "It's so good to see you smile again, Harry. I was beginning to think you'd never smile again. You never laugh anymore; I was worried."

"I laugh," he said defensively, an image of spending his last month and a half in an angry depression hitting him so suddenly that he was nearly sick. Of course he _laughed_. After all, what was the point in being alive at all if he never _laughed_?

"When?" she asked, her eyebrows raised.

_When I'm with Malfoy_. Oh. "Umm."

"See? But still. It's a start, this smile of yours." She laughed when her words brought that goofy grin to his face again.

The portrait swung open suddenly and Heather, the Head Girl, stood there, looking grim. "Harry," she chided. "Dumbledore wants to see you."

"Again?" Hermione asked, frowning.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't worry about it. I know what it's about." He started towards the door and she grabbed his arm.

"What? Is it the same thing as last time? You never did tell us what that was about, Harry."

"No, something different. I suspect he's rather annoyed that Malfoy and I skipped detention last night… we're gonna be serving detention for the rest of our lives." He sounded quite chipper about it, refusing to remember that it wouldn't be that long, really, for him.

"_Harry_!" she cried. "You skipped?"

He just grinned at her and followed Heather out of the common room.

Draco was already there, waiting for them outside Dumbledore's office, and he smirked when he saw Harry, ducking his head in an attempt to hide it from Heather. Looking more and more suspicious, she frowned before whispering the password to the headmaster's office. "He's waiting," she said brusquely, before walking away.

Dumbledore looked very grim, and Harry fought the urge to laugh. He didn't know what had come over him, really, but he rather liked it. It was better than trying to punch through stone walls and hating everything that was going to last longer than he was.

"Words cannot express how disappointed I am in both of you," Dumbledore began.

Harry cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to restrain a giggle and Draco shot him an exasperated look, though he was grinning reluctantly. Both had ducked their heads in an attempt to look contrite.

"Do you find something amusing?" Dumbledore asked mildly, his white eyebrows arching.

"No, sir," Draco said quickly.

Dumbledore glanced from one to the other and sat back in his chair, looking rather perplexed and, Harry saw, after darting a swift glance at the headmaster, almost _amused_. "Harry," he said, focusing his eyes on him through the half moon spectacles "I'm glad, at least, that this recent transgression of yours has put you in a better frame of mind than when I saw you last. However, I cannot allow this to go unpunished; Mr. Filch would undoubtedly resign were I not to ensure that a harsh punishment were put in place for sneaking off while serving a detention for him."

"Resign?" Draco asked, perking up at that. "You think so?"

A smile twitched at Dumbledore's lips. "And that would, of course, be a terrible loss to this school. I was going to give you both more detention, however, with end of year exams next week, that would interfere with your studies. So instead, you will serve your two remaining detentions this Saturday and the next, and spend an hour studying in the library together every day after class. If there are any more transgressions, I shall have to consider suspending you both from playing Quidditch next year. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes, sir," Draco said quickly. Harry didn't speak at all.

"You are dismissed. Harry, if you'll mind staying for a moment," Dumbledore said graciously. Glancing at him suspiciously, Draco left the office. "I just wished to inquire as to how you were doing," Dumbledore said, a great deal more gently now. "Sirius said that this week's session went very well."

A lie, that, but Harry didn't correct it. "I'm fine," he said stiffly.

"I do hope this recent bit of bad behavior has nothing to do with what I told you last week."

"What do you mean?" His tone was defiant now. He did not wish to discuss this.

Dumbledore saw it on his face and sighed. "We're still working on it, Harry. Nothing's set in stone."

"Mmm. Well," Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore sighed. "We are doing our best, Mr. Potter. But you'd best be getting to class. I shall inform Madam Pince to expect you and Mr. Malfoy in the library directly after class to begin studying together. Good day."

Harry was in a significantly worse mood as he left the office than when he'd entered.

***

It was Friday, and the library was emptier on Friday nights than any other. Pince nodded stiffly at him when he entered, indicating that she'd been expecting him, and Draco was already there, books opened and scribbling quickly as he studied. He didn't look up when Harry approached the table.

"Hey," he said. "What should we study first?"

"I study best alone," Draco said, still not looking up.

"But Dumbledore said —"

"That we have to study together. Not that I have to help you." He finally glanced up and Harry saw how worried he looked. "I haven't got time to help you, Harry."

"I don't need help," Harry mumbled, irritated. He didn't comment on Draco calling him ‘Harry' either. It didn't seem worth the effort.

Laughing dryly, Draco said, "Oh, trust me, you need more help than I could ever give," he said, and Harry knew he wasn't talking about schoolwork. He didn't care. Dropping his books, he made his way over to the reference shelves, scanning the titles. He'd been meaning to do some research and now seemed a good time for it.

He returned to the table a few moments later with a large, dusty book, sitting across from Draco and opening it, scanning the table of contents and flipping to page 154.

He was studying the large pictures, old pictures that were faded but still moving, when Draco spoke. "Shouldn't you be studying?"

"What happens to a wizard when they die?" Harry asked, instead of replying.

"Are you asking if I believe in Heaven?" Draco snickered.

"No, I mean, the funeral. What's a wizard funeral like?  
Draco frowned at him. "What on earth are you reading?"

"‘_Wizarding Rites of Passage_'," he replied.

"_Why_?"

"I've never been to a wizard funeral and I was just wondering what it was like, that's all." The pictures looked relatively like Muggle funerals, really. Coffins and bodies, tombstones and people weeping around an open grave.

"Interesting reading," Draco said sarcastically, coming to stand behind him and read over his shoulder. "Why do you care?"

"I just wondered is all." Harry shivered, feeling Draco's breath on the back of his neck and unnerved by it.

"Rather morbid, really."

"I don't think I'd like a regular funeral when I die. It's hardly dramatic enough," Harry mused out loud. "I mean, it's just flowers and people crying. Rather tacky, really."

Returning to his seat, Draco picked up his quill and asked, "Well, what do you expect? They're saying goodbye."

"It's just too quiet and calm."

"Death is quiet and calm."

"I don't think it would be. I think death would be… something that moved a lot. Something huge and complicated, way more complicated than this. Something with thousands of pieces that fit together perfectly, like a puzzle. When you look at a single piece, it doesn't make sense, but when the last piece fits it, it all makes sense."

Draco laughed. "Hardly. Death is the body shutting down. There's no puzzle, no great revelation. There's nothing."

Shivering again, though this time in panic, Harry whispered, "You don't believe in life after death? Even… even with all the ghosts around here?"

"That's different. That's not really death at all. That's when you don't want to die so badly that you refuse to understand that you've died. Oh, you might know you've died, but you refuse to be dead. I'd rather be dead than a ghost."

"You're wrong," Harry said with quiet conviction, his eyes welling up with tears.

Draco saw them. "Alright, whatever you want to believe, Potter," he said in a bewildered tone.

Pushing the book away, Harry turned to his studies, ignoring Draco for the rest of the afternoon.

***

That night, sitting on his bed and staring at the roof, unable to get the faded images from the book out of his mind, Harry felt that itch under his skin again. The one that led to a panic attack, the terror and need to prove to himself that he was real, to reassure himself that he was still here.

The knife was in between his mattresses and Harry slipped his hand under there and pulled it out. It was habit now; to keep from going mad, Harry would reach for the knife. It had evolved past proving that he was real and still bled. Now it was a way to pull the panic from his mind out and put it somewhere else, into his arm. It was a way of exorcising it, canceling it out. Proving that it was there and by facing it that way, destroying it.

He hadn't actually done it since before the night at the lake. Now, however, his hand was trembling as he ran the blade over his forearm in a curved line, splitting the skin. Blood welled out, more than ever; he'd never gone that deep before. He watched it run down his arm for a while before grabbing a cloth nearby and pressing it to the cut.

He fell asleep that way, cradling his bloody arm to his chest.

***

It was Saturday, and Draco, as a general rule, loved Saturdays. This one, however, he reminded himself as he gradually woke up, was supposed to be spent in detention. Which significantly lowered his enjoyment of the simple fact that it was Saturday. He moaned a little as he opened his eyes, wrinkling his nose.

He dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and left the Slytherin dungeons before anyone else was even awake. They were to spend the day serving detention with Hagrid and who knew what the giant oaf would have them doing. Attempting to rid the forest of werewolves or something, no doubt.

Harry was waiting in the Entrance Hall for him, looking wan and pale, weak, with dark circles under his eyes. Feeling a strange hint of sympathy, Draco smiled at him. It was an unprecedented move, really, that smile that held no hint of sarcasm or sneer.

"Hi," Harry mumbled sleepily. "We're supposed to go out to Hagrid's and meet him there."

"Right." Draco led the way out the door and Harry followed.

Hagrid was waiting for them, a dark shadow in the predawn light, and he shouted a cheerful hello before informing them that Professor Sprout required a garden dug and they were to dig it, out behind the green houses. They were to remove the dirt so she could fill the hole with her own blend of soil.

"Dig a garden?" Draco whispered, appalled. "You'd think I was a servant or something."

"Detentions are not supposed to be pleasant," Harry said tonelessly. Draco looked at him sharply. His eyes were dark again, almost black, and Draco hated it.

Hagrid led them to where the plot had been marked with stakes and handed them both shovels, promising that someone would bring them lunch, and then ambled off, leaving them alone.

It was going to be a sweltering hot day, Draco could tell already and the sun was just now rising. A sweltering day of digging. Lovely. He scowled and watched as Harry mechanically went about prying up strips of dirt with the grass still sprouting from the top. They were neat, nearly perfectly straight rows, and Draco smirked.

"An expert at digging gardens, are you?"

"Dug them for my aunt," he replied absently, wiping the sweat that had already begun gathering on his forehead with his arm. He winced a little. "Pull up the strips and roll them up, will you? I'll break them, this is the hardest part. The dirt will be softer underneath."

Draco snorted. "I don't think so. Honestly, this is servant's work. My father would roll over in his grave if he could see me now."

"You're father's not dead."

"Well, if he were dead."  
Harry just looked at him and shook his head in irritation. "Fine. You sit there and get a sunburn, I'll do it myself."

Sighing loudly, Draco rolled his eyes and started pulling the turf up and rolling it awkwardly, grunting with effort as he carried them a short distance away. They worked in silence for a long while, until all the grass was gone and it was just dirt, and then Draco got his shovel and they started tossing dirt out of the large, rectangular plot.

Against his will, Draco found himself actually enjoying it. The way his muscles ached, the way his body sweated, it was novel for him, this physical labor. He'd never done anything like this before, anything that required this much effort.

By the time an hour had passed and the sun was up, Draco pulled his t-shirt off and tossed it aside, though Harry hadn't removed his long-sleeved button-up shirt.

When the shirt was filthy and stained with sweat an hour later, Draco turned to ask Harry about it. His own chest was sweaty now and streaked with dirt, and he felt rather sexy. Like the construction workers he'd seen in Muggle London one time when his nanny had taken him to McDonalds without his father's knowledge.

With a quirky grin, he said, "I feel so sexy. I'm all sweaty and dirty. Like a construction worker I saw in London one day."

Harry glanced at him and turned away quickly, face flushing a little. "More like one of those Village People."

"Who? Yeah, I guess they have construction workers in villages. It doesn't matter. Still sexy."

He was about to say something more when Harry shoved the spade into the ground and twisted his arm a bit. He winced but didn't make a sound, and Draco saw that the sleeve of his shirt was stained with blood.

"Oh, bloody hell," he snapped. Harry glanced up.

"What?" He looked startled, as if he'd forgotten Draco was there, and his eyes flew to his naked, dirty chest and then back to his face as his cheeks flushed even more than they had been from the heat. "Where's your shirt?"

Draco ignored his question, tossed his shovel aside, and stepped closer, grabbing Harry's shirt by the neck and jerking it so the buttons popped off. Harry started to protest but Draco just pulled his arms out of the sleeves roughly and tossed the shirt aside. "What the hell have you done now?" he mumbled, grabbing Harry's arm and turning it over.

A new cut had broken open, and it was oozing blood and covered in dirt. "Stupid, stupid boy," Draco scolded, sounding like a mother. Not his mother, but someone's mother. He'd heard they said things like that, and ‘clucked like a mother hen'. He'd read that phrase in a book one time and was startled to hear himself make a sound very much like what he assumed a mother hen would.

"It's fine," Harry said quietly. He shut up when Draco raised his furious gray eyes to his green. Rolling his eyes and looking away, Harry let Draco tend to the cut. A house elf had brought water a while before, and Draco tore Harry's shirt with an easy twist and wet it, gently cleaning the blood and dirt away from the cut.

"I swear, the amount of times I've had to clean you up," he mumbled, inspecting the cut. He was quite satisfied, really. It was deep, but it was on the upper side of the arm and not straight, which, he assumed, meant that it hadn't been a suicide attempt. That had to mean something. If it had been an attempt to slice open his vein, surely even Harry knew that the veins were in the wrist. And the cut would have been more deliberate and planned. It wouldn't have wandered like that.

They had been forced to leave their wands with Hagrid so Draco couldn't heal it for him. "Should have told me before, I would have healed it in the Entry Hall," he scolded.

"It doesn't matter," Harry replied.

Draco shot him another glare and ripped his own shirt this time, which was a great deal cleaner than Harry's. He tied a strip of it around the cut to act as a bandage, sure that Harry would kill him if he ran up into the castle to get bandages or, even worse, Pomfrey.

"There. Now keep your sodding shirt off, it's too hot for that."

Again, Harry's green eyes trailed lower, over Draco's chest, and his face turned even redder. "Right," he croaked, glancing away.

Draco grinned a bit and rolled his eyes, even if he didn't quite understand and his own face was a little red. "If it starts bleeding again," he said, "tell me. I suspect this digging's not good for it."

Harry laughed shortly. "What, you're going to make me sit and watch while you finish it?"

"If I have to," Draco said simply, picking up his shovel. Harry didn't move for a long moment, he just stared at Draco with some sort of wonder in his eyes that Draco wasn't ready to consider. Then he picked up his own shovel and they worked together in silence again, though where they had ignored each other before, now there was some heightened awareness between them. After that day, Harry would always be able to easily remember the way Draco looked when he wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist and Draco would never forget the way Harry's throat moved when he tilted his head back and drank from the water jug. The memories would be a bit hazy, however, with heat and nervousness and some strange sort of excitement that neither could yet identify.

Professor Sprout was to plant a wildflower garden there, and when Draco found out, he would laugh at the irony of it. He'd never liked wild gardens, they made him nervous, but he knew without knowing how he knew that they would be Harry's favourite.

***

His body aching from a long day of digging, Draco fell into bed after his shower that night feeling strangely satisfied. They’d finished the garden by dinnertime, and Sprout had come out to inspect their work just as they’d finished. She beamed at them. “Lovely, just lovely.”

“Are you planting herbs?” Harry had asked from where he was sprawled out on his back on the ground.

She grinned and took out her wand, casting a few charms as she filled the hole with soil. “No, I’m casting a winter wildflower garden.”

“Wildflowers don’t bloom in winter,” Harry had informed her.

“That’s why I’m ‘casting’ it and not ‘planting’ it. I’m warding the ground so it doesn’t freeze and charming it so that they will. It’s a project that my first years will be helping me plant,” she had said. “It’ll bloom this coming winter.”

Harry had looked suddenly sad and almost wistful. “I’d love to see it,” he’d decided softly, and she’d smiled at him, inviting him to come back in the wintertime.

“After all,” she had told them brightly. “You and Mr. Malfoy put your sweat and time into this garden, it practically belongs to the both of you.”

“I don’t like wildflowers,” Draco had said delicately.

“I do,” Harry had whispered, smiling and kicking at the dirt in the garden thoughtfully.

Now, lying on his back in bed, still damp from the shower, Draco smiled a little sleepily. He was so exhausted, he doubted he’d dream tonight.

But he did.

Draco had had a few erotic dreams before, of course. He’d never been very impressed with them though, had never woken up any different than how he’d fallen asleep. The way the other boys talked about in the changing room sometimes, he had almost thought, before having experienced them, that having a dream of that nature was some Rite of Passage into adulthood and he’d be changed when he woke up. He’d never woken up sweating or breathing heavily or turned on the way boys his age were always snickering about. However, this was different.

This was about Harry.

The strangest part, though, was that this dream was not even erotic in a blatantly sexual way, and Draco still woke up short of breath, his body painfully aroused.

In the dream it was nighttime, and he was walking over a field he’d never seen before. The sky was clear and there was no wind; it was silent. And then he’d come to a large, rectangular hole: the flower garden they’d dug. Harry was lying on his back inside it, his arms stretched over his head, his eyes opened and staring at the sky. There was a smudge of dirt along one cheekbone.

“There are worms down there,” Draco said.

“I’m not afraid of worms.”

“What are you afraid of?”

Harry smiled, his eyes on the skies above, not focusing on Draco’s face in a way that unnerved him. “Do you want to fight about it?”

“About what?”

“What I’m afraid of. How about we fight, and whomever wins gets to choose what I fear.”

“And if you win? What will you choose?”

“This. I’ll choose to be afraid of this.”

In the dream, Draco knew that Harry was not talking about holes that looked oddly like graves, or still summer nights. He was talking about Draco and Harry and their strange sort of friendship that was not friendship at all, and all of this seemed perfectly logical.

And then the dream shifted, the nighttime sky lightening like the dawn. Draco realized moments later that it wasn’t the sky at all any longer, but a roof, with dancing torchlight that had only seemed like sunlight. They were in a hall at Hogwarts, and he didn’t question how they had gotten there so fast. It was not the nature of dreams to be questioned.

Dressed in their school robes now, though Harry still had the smudge of dirt on his cheek, they faced each other, wands in hand.

Harry jerked his head a bit, a strange smirk on his lips. “You’re not going to touch me,” he taunted.

“I don’t want to,” Draco replied, because it was expected of him to do so. He raised his wand but Harry was faster, and a curse came hurling out of nowhere. Draco knew without knowing how he knew that it was the Killing Curse, and he dodged it.

He countered with a tickling curse that missed and ricocheted off the stone wall, leaving a black scorch mark. Tilting his head back and laughing recklessly, Harry sent another curse and then another, easily dancing out of reach when Draco responded to them.

Snarling at the ineffectiveness of magic, Draco began to stalk him instead, ducking the spells Harry shot at him, and finally cornering him at a dead end. It was a hall that went nowhere.

Their wands twisted like snakes in their hands and they were holding swords suddenly; Harry’s had Gryffindor etched into the blade, but Draco’s was strangely blank.

Swinging his sword up over his head and bringing it crashing down in what would have been a killing blow if Harry hadn’t countered, Draco hissed, the sword echoing the sound as it sliced through the air. A sharp ring of steel on steel and then a grunt as Harry met the blow, the swords held mere inches from his face. He wasn’t laughing now, he was gritting his teeth, his eyes squinting with the effort it took to keep Draco from slicing his face open.

“I’m not going to fall in love with you,” Harry had panted.

This time it was Draco’s turn to reply with a reckless grin, and a whispered, “That sounds like a threat, Potter…”

And then the swords were gone and the floor disappeared and they fell for what seemed forever.

When they landed, it was Harry on his back and Draco on top of him, pinning him to the ground. A small, playful smile lifted the corner of Harry’s lips in a graceful curve and he whispered, “That was different.”

And then Draco woke up.

He was lying on his back, panting raggedly, his body sticky with sweat. He closed his eyes and moaned a little as the details replayed themselves in his mind, and Draco started shaking with an instinctive sort of terror.

That wasn’t normal, that wasn’t right. He’d just dreamed about Harry Potter and he’d… he’d reacted to it in a way he had never reacted to a dream before.

“Oh god,” he whispered, covering his face with his hands and feeling sick with fear. “That wasn’t real, I didn’t… I didn’t dream that.”

But it was a lie and his body was evidence enough to the contrary. He now understood what the other boys meant when they talked about waking up turned on, only he hardly thought it was something to laugh over. It was embarrassing.

Of course, they’d never woken up from dreams of Harry Potter this way.

“Oh my god,” he moaned, burying his face in his pillow.

Draco was late to the library because he didn’t think he could stomach the idea of walking in and seeing Harry, sure the other boy would take one look at him and know. It was Sunday and they’d agreed to meet and study all day for exams. Approaching the doors and chickening out at least three times, he was just walking quickly away from the library, intending to never return, when he ran into Harry, who, apparently, was running late as well.

“Oh. Draco.”

“What?”

“I was just startled, I thought you’d be inside already.”

Flustered, Draco glanced at Harry and then away quickly, before darting another hesitant look at him and clearing his throat. “Umm,” he said. He would have commented on the strangeness of Harry calling him Draco, but he was valiantly fighting a losing battle with his mind to keep images of the dream from dancing through his mind. He should not have been turned on by a dream about dueling with Harry Potter!

“Are you alright? You look terrible, I think you’ve got a fever,” Harry said worriedly.

“Fine,” Draco croaked, turning and dashing into the library.

By the time Harry followed him in, Draco had dumped his books on the table and opened one, holding it up in front of his face and pretending to read it.

He heard Harry sit across from him and set his own books down as well, and then there was silence. Slumping a little so that he was completely hidden behind the book, Draco was alarmed to notice he was shaking.

And that, apparently, whatever had possessed him last night and inspired that dream and that morning’s discomfort was still… there. Because being close enough to hear Harry’s breathing was making it rather hard to focus on anything else.

When Harry touched his hand, he dropped the book with a strangled yelp and shot him a hurt look. “What?”

“Are you mad about something?” Harry asked, biting his lip. Draco stared at it for a long moment, white teeth worrying pink skin, and he flushed and jerked his eyes away.

“No.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

Harry seemed to be in a strange mood that morning: wistful, thoughtful, and sad. Draco studied his face before staring at the table and mumbling truthfully, “I had a weird dream last night and it’s just making me jumpy.”

“A nightmare?”

“No…” Draco grimaced.

“What happened in it?” His eyes had brightened considerably and Draco did love it when they shone that particular shade of green. He sighed.

“Well… there was this hole and you were lying at the bottom…”

“Was I dead?” Harry looked so honestly distressed that Draco hurried to reassure him.

“No, you were just… it was just weird. We fought. With swords. And then we fell from the sky. That’s all.”

Lifting his eyebrows skeptically, Harry said, “That’s it? Why are you so jumpy over that?”

“I’m… not. Let’s just forget about it, alright? I have to study.”

Harry looked a little hurt but obediently let the topic go, dropping his chin onto his hand and letting his eyes wander restlessly. Relieved, Draco picked up his book again and this time tried to actually study it, rather than just pretend to. It was hard, however; he’d never been so aware of another person as he was of Harry Potter right then. Every time the other boy sighed, shifted uncomfortably, ran his hand through his hair, Draco’s eyes would lift up off the page and flicker over to watch him.

“You could study,” Draco snapped finally.

“Oh, no, I don’t intend to. I’m going to fail every one of my O.W.L.s.”

“On purpose?”

“No. Don’t see the point in passing, really.”

Draco just rolled his eyes and turned back to his book. Moments later, Harry got up and wandered away from the table, disappearing behind a shelf. Sighing loudly, Draco set his book down. If having Harry at the table was distracting enough, having him away from the table was worse.

He waited until Harry had returned, carrying a huge book, before returning to his own.

Managing to read an entire page before curiosity got the better of him, Draco set his book down and said, “That’s not another book on death, is it, Potter?”

Harry looked up and then closed the book, reading the title. “‘Ancient Burial Rites of Cultures Around the World’.”

“Ah, I see. I never would have thought the Boy Who Lived was so morbid.”

Harry shrugged, two bright red spots rising to his cheeks. “I’m not morbid. I just want to know.”

“Why does it matter? When it happens to you, you’ll be dead and won’t care.”

He looked almost angry now, and Draco was intrigued. “Shut up, Malfoy,” he snapped. “You don’t know what you’re going on about.”

Draco shrugged, and Harry went back to reading; Draco didn’t. He wondered if Harry was aware that, when he concentrated, the tip of his tongue stuck out the tiniest bit between his lips, or that he tapped his first two fingers on the upper left hand corner of the book. Or the way he’d flick his head three times to get his hair out of his eyes before he’d get annoyed enough to reach up with his right hand and smooth it back. Or even the way, every so often, his eyelids would flutter as he gazed off into space to consider what he’d just read.

Of course, anyone who noticed these things, especially a boy noticing them about another boy, had to be mad, Draco decided, reluctantly forcing his eyes away. But returning to his dry and boring textbook hardly seemed worth it after studying Harry that way, and he sighed a bit.

“I heard about this one type of funeral where they put your body in this flat-bottomed boat,” Harry said suddenly, glancing up to see if Draco was paying attention. Of course he was. “And then they push you out onto the river or lake or ocean and shoot burning arrows at the boat until it catches fire.”

Draco blinked slowly, the words scarcely processing. He’d been staring at Harry’s lips. Oh god, what was wrong with him?

“Do you know which culture that is?” Harry asked, after a long moment had passed. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Why?”

“Because when I die, that’s what I want. But I don’t know which culture it was.”

Smirking a bit, Draco said, “I bet they wouldn’t let the body of a hero like you be treated that way. They’d probably want to display it for a bit, and then entomb it or something, under a giant memorial listing all your good deeds.”

Harry looked nauseous and Draco felt a faint stirring of remorse. However, before he could say anything, Harry whispered, “Do you think so?”

A little ashamed of himself for making Harry turn that pale, ashen colour, Draco said shortly, “How the hell should I know what they’ll do with you?”

He still looked ill, pale, and very small, and Harry said shakily, “But what if I don’t have enough good deeds to make a whole monument out of?”

He snorted. “The great Harry Potter not save the world at least twelve times before he died? Hell, Potter, even I’d be disappointed in you.”

It had been meant as a flippant joke, but Harry’s eyes were welling with what looked suspiciously like tears, and Draco felt like he had just killed a little boy’s favourite pet. “Harry,” he said in a subdued tone. “I wasn’t serious.”

“It’s alright, it doesn’t matter.”

Draco sighed in frustration and reached over, touching Harry’s hand lightly, a peace offering. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Smiling faintly, Harry turned his hand over so that they were palm to palm. “Forget it,” he said lightly.

But his eyes were still shadowed, and Draco couldn’t quite get them out of his mind.

***

“I saw you in the library today,” Hermione said, when Harry entered the common room later that night.

He paused, startled. “Did you? I didn’t see you there.”

Lips pursed strangely, Hermione said slowly, “No, I don’t suppose you would have, Harry.” She seemed incredibly perplexed by something, and was speaking carefully, delicately.

“What do you mean?”

“You were there with Malfoy.”

“I told you, Dumbledore says we have to study together.”

“But Harry…” she cleared her throat and glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “Harry, you were holding his hand.”

So surprised that he nearly choked, Harry cried, “What are you going on about, Hermione? I was not!”

“I _saw_ you!” she insisted.

He frowned, confused, and then sudden realization made him laugh. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to comment, but Harry said quickly, “He wasn’t _holding my hand_! He’d upset me and he was just… apologizing.”

“Draco Malfoy doesn’t apologize,” she said stiffly.

“Mmm, no, he doesn’t,” Harry replied sweetly. “And he doesn’t hold hands with boys in the library.”

She smiled reluctantly at that and shrugged. “You have got a point. Still, it was strange, the way he was looking at you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, frowning.

“Nothing. It’s just…well. Never mind, I’m probably just still jumpy over the fact that you’re spending so much time with him. It doesn’t seem real. But I’ve been so busy lately, maybe that’s why you were forced to spend time with him. Ron and I have both been busy, what with O.W.L.s and that bloody weapons club.”

Harry glanced away, suddenly realizing how terrible Hermione was going to feel after… after his birthday. Really, unless Dumbledore pulled off some miracle, he’d probably never see Hermione and Ron again after this last week and a half of term. He nearly felt sick to his stomach at the thought. He couldn’t tell them, of course. They didn’t need the distraction… didn’t need to have Harry and his Boy-Who-Lived status once again pulling them away from having a normal life.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said firmly, quietly, sitting beside her. “None of this is your fault. Remember that, alright? No matter what happens?”

She laughed nervously. “Why do I feel like you’re saying goodbye or something?” Her eyes narrowed and she peered into his eyes, biting her lip. “God, Harry, when did that happen?” she whispered.

“When did what happen?”

“Your eyes. They’re so much darker than they used to be.”

He pulled away skittishly, laughing darkly as he remembered that days before he’d found out he was going to die, he was furious because no one noticed the change in his eyes. Now, he wished she’d look anywhere but there, because he was afraid the darkness was more than she could stand, that it would corrupt her somehow. “It’s just the lighting,” he said lightly.

Ron came in then, his clothing heavily grass stained, beaming and anxious to tell them both about the latest weapons club meeting. They’d been learning about guns.

He’d missed them, Harry realized painfully, as he listened to Hermione suggest that perhaps studying for O.W.L.s would have been a better expenditure of time. And he’d miss them even more, afterwards…

It was suddenly too painful to bear, and he found himself wishing desperately that Draco was there, because he was feeling like things were crumbling around him again and that this wasn’t real, and only having Draco there to distract him made things solid again. But he couldn’t go find Draco now, because nothing could force him, at that moment, to walk away from Hermione and Ron, so familiar and safe and perfect in their bickering and their fighting and their friendship.

Which meant, of course, that he couldn’t cut his arm either, so he supposed it was alright.

They went to dinner together soon after that, Harry doing his best to keep up with the conversation, enjoying just being with Hermione and Ron for the first time in weeks, not listing their faults over and over in his head but remembering why they’d become friends in the first place and how he didn’t ever want that to end. He ignored the looks Hermione was sending Ron over his head, and it was easier to do, seeing as he was so much shorter than they were. They’d obviously been worried about him, and he didn’t want to know that they thought he was better. Because he wasn’t, and most likely wouldn’t ever be. Unless Dumbledore discovered some magical charm to make him live forever.

He laughed bitterly at that, and Hermione bit her lip worriedly. “What is it?”

“Oh. Nothing.” He smiled and she looked relieved.

Harry sat between them at the table, glancing around at his housemates for the first time in weeks. Guilt was coiling in his stomach, at what he was so willing to give up before, before he knew it was going to be taken from him. His housemates, his school, his professors, his life.

He felt like a fool for ever wanting to let this go.

And just as he thought it, Draco entered the Great Hall, his eyes falling on Harry immediately, and before Harry had even registered this, a soft smile curved his lips upwards. Draco grinned in reply, and the entire exchange was over before Harry could even wonder about it.

He glanced at Hermione, who was involved in a heated debate with Neville about something they’d learned in Herbology that day, and Harry was glad she hadn’t noticed the exchange with Draco. He still wasn’t quite over the fact that she had thought he had been holding hands with him in the library.

It was nearing the end of dinner when Harry happened to glance up to find Draco staring intently at him. He choked a bit on a bite of pickle and then looked about nervously. No one was paying any attention, so he frowned and mouthed, “What?”

Draco grinned and jerked his head towards the door before turning and saying something to Goyle, who was sitting beside him. With meaningful glance at Harry, he got up and walked casually out the door.

“I, umm, I’m finished,” Harry said abruptly. “And I’ve just remembered a bit of studying I’ve got to do. I’ll catch up with you guys later.” He hurried from the hall.

Draco was waiting impatiently just outside the door and when Harry came out of it, he said, “Right then, come on,” before turning and walking purposefully towards the front doors.

“Umm, what?” Harry asked, startled, even as he fell into step beside Draco. “Where are we going?”

“Out,” Draco said, grinning over his shoulders.

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve decided that I’ve got to use my limited time left to get out more. Have more adventures. See the world. That sort of thing.” He sounded cheerful, and Harry’s eyes narrowed.

“Your limited time left?”

“Yeah. See, I’m gonna die this summer.”

He stumbled and nearly fell, whimpering low in his throat and then saying harshly, “What?”

Draco turned, frowning. “Are you alright?”

“What did you mean, you’re going to die this summer?”

“My dad. I finally got up the guts to read that letter he sent me after he heard about those detentions, and he’s really angry. You couldn’t tell from the letter, of course, but the threat was there. He’s going to kill me.”

Harry wanted to sit down and cry. “Oh,” he said faintly.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked again, frowning.

“Fine.”

“You look sick.”

“I’m _fine_!” Harry snapped, pushing passed him and out the front door. After a moment, Draco followed him.

“No need to get so upset, I wasn’t serious,” he said.

“I’m not upset.”

Draco grinned. “What, were you worried about me? That I was really dying?”

“No. Trust me, no.” Things were spinning and Harry could feel a panic attack coming on. He did not want to be having this conversation.

“Hey. Alright, I’m sorry, calm down,” Draco said, sounding alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m…sick,” Harry said finally, squeezing his eyes shut. “Dizzy.”

“Oh. Umm. Come over here, I think there’s a bench.” He took Harry’s arm (Hermione would think they were holding hands, Harry thought hysterically) and led him a short distance away. Harry didn’t even think about the trust it took to let Draco lead him blindly, because he didn’t want to open his eyes and see that the world was still spinning too fast for him to keep his footing. “Sit,” Draco commanded, and Harry did, dropping heavily onto the bench. There was a long silence, and gradually the panic attack faded, replaced by something more strange. Draco was still touching him, only his hand had slipped down from his arm, so it was resting over top of Harry’s hand.

Unnerved, Harry moved his fingers a bit, hoping to draw Draco’s attention to his hand incase he hadn’t noticed that he was doing it.

Draco only stroked Harry’s wrist with his thumb. Opening his eyes, Harry glanced at him nervously and knew that Draco was completely unaware of it. He was studying Harry’s face worriedly. “Better?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Harry replied shakily, because he still felt dizzy but knew somehow that it wasn’t because of the panic attack. It was because Draco’s thumb was still stroking his wrist.

He carefully pulled his hand away, and Draco blinked a bit as he did, glancing down at where their hands had been touching. Watching his face, Harry saw his eyes widen the tiniest bit and colour bloom in two small patches on his cheeks, but Draco didn’t comment on it, and Harry couldn’t help a small grin from lighting up his face.

Glancing around, he said finally, “We’re in the formal gardens. So Draco Malfoy would spend one of his last nights on earth in a formal garden?” he teased lightly, having forgotten all the reasons why he should not be joking this way, lost in Draco’s touch and his blush and the strange terror in his eyes.

Draco looked around and smiled brightly, seeming grateful for the change of subject. “Of course,” he said cheerfully. “There’s a lot of artistry in a formal garden. You should see the ones at my house. They’re way better than these.”

“Are they?” Harry replied, trying to sound interested. “At my house, we’ve just got flower beds with petunias in them. Aunt Petunia only plants them because, well… She was named after them and thinks it’s cool, somehow. I hate petunias.”

“We don’t have any at my house. Mother loathes them, calls them ‘peasant’ flowers.”

“Peasant flowers?” Harry laughed.

“Yes. As are daisies, dandelions, carnations, sunflowers, and a few types of lilies. She likes subtler flowers, like irises and snapdragons.” Draco laughed a little, a different sort of laughter than his usual. It wasn’t a snicker or a snide laugh at all, but almost gentle. “That’s where I got my name, you know. Snapdragons are her favourite.”

Harry couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. “All these years I thought you were named that because you were a monster,” he snickered. “Because you were awful and evil and mean, and just a little scaly.”

“Scaly?” Draco cried.

“I have seen you naked, remember,” Harry pointed out.

Draco’s mouth was hanging open and it took him a long while to reply, and when he did, it was little more than an indignant snort.

“Snapdragon,” Harry said with a smirk. “What’s your middle name then? Rose?”

“Potter!” Draco howled, shoving him. “Don’t make me hurt you!”

Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye to see how serious he was, and the look of outrage on Draco’s face caused him to burst out laughing. “I’m sorry!” he cried defensively, when Draco shot him a menacing glare and lifted a fist threateningly. “But honestly! _Snapdragon_?”

“If you tell anyone, Potter…”

“I won’t,” Harry snickered. “Your secret’s safe with me, Draco…” It took an extreme burst of willpower to keep from calling him ‘Snapdragon’, but Harry managed, his lips only slightly twisting upwards in a smirk.

“Why should I trust you?” Draco asked warily, lowering his fist and flattening his hand on the stone bench.

For a long time, Harry said nothing, and then he slowly slid his hand along the smooth surface, until it was lying over top of Draco’s. He stared at their hands for a long moment and then glanced up through his lashes at Draco’s face nervously. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know how Draco would react, and he whispered shakily, “For the same reason I trust you.”

There was a breathless moment, where Draco just stared at him with dark, unreadable eyes, and then his hand turned over under Harry’s, so they were palm to palm, like in the library. Draco’s fingers slipped in between Harry’s, and he smiled slightly, before nodding once.

It was strange; Harry had never seen Draco look anything but indignantly outraged or coolly confident, but right then, he looked almost shy. Harry grinned at him and the shyness was gone in an instant as Draco smirked in reply and rolled his eyes.

***

Harry lay awake for a long time that night, not thinking about the things that usually kept him up at night. Instead, Harry watched the shadows on the roof and thought about Draco. He was scared, the nervous sort of fear that feels like butterflies and made him want to constantly keep moving to pretend they weren’t there. The shaky sort of excited nervousness that made him sick to his stomach yet unable to stop grinning all at once.

“What am I doing?” he whispered once, turning over in his bed and burying his face in his pillow. He was smiling, his face slowly heating up, and he laughed a little, muffling the sound by pressing his mouth to his arm. “God. This is crazy.”

He’d just been holding hands with Draco Malfoy in the formal gardens.

That thought made him laugh harder, until, desperate not to wake his housemates up, Harry was forced to throw his blanket up over his head and dive under his pillow as helpless laughter crashed over him. He couldn’t have stopped it for the world. It was like the nervous butterflies in his stomach were all bursting from his throat and the sound of their wings was his laughter. And it was nice. He hadn’t laughed like that in forever.

Finally, when the giggles had subsided and he wasn’t so nervous after all (the butterflies had left now), Harry, still buried under his blanket, let out a small sigh, his smile fading. The other things Harry had to fear came back now, slowly creeping into his mind, and he closed his eyes, pressing his fist to his lips to prevent a low cry from escaping.

He didn’t like to think of that. Of his birthday or his mother or his life, none of it. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. But his eyes flew open and he ran a finger over the healing cuts on his arm and whispered, “It’s real…”

That terror spilled over to his thoughts about Draco, and Harry’s nervous excitement was gone in an instant. What was he doing?

He remembered then how Draco had flippantly claimed that he was going to die that summer, and a strange burst of longing hit him so hard that all the breath hissed out of his lungs. If Draco did die that summer, maybe they could die together…

And then Harry was crying, painful, harsh sobs that burned in his throat.

***

Draco was worried. He hadn’t slept much and now, sitting across from Harry in the library, all the thoughts he’d had the night before were pushed form his mind, the thoughts about forgetting everything in the garden and going on as if they were still blood enemies and not whatever the hell Harry seemed to think they were. Harry was pale, his eyes bloodshot, dark and distracted. He looked like he’d been crying all night.

“Harry,” Draco said finally, after watching Harry stare out the window for a long while. The other boy didn’t react to his voice, and Draco reached over and touched his hand.

Harry’s head snapped around, his eyes widening a bit, and his lower lip trembled, just a little. “Oh,” he said, and even his voice was husky, as if he’d been crying. “Sorry. What?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Harry moved as if to turn back to the window, and Draco touched him again.

“You look ill or something.”

“I’m not.”

Chewing his bottom lip nervously, Draco said falteringly, “It wasn’t…wasn’t what happened in the garden, was it? That made you cry?”

Tears glittered in Harry’s eyes and he smiled, thought it was a wane, weak smile. “Who ever said I was crying? I never cry.”

“Harry.”

Sighing, Harry closed his eyes and turned his hand over underneath Draco’s. Palm to palm again. “No,” he whispered. “It wasn’t that. It was… I was remembering. How you said you were going to die this summer.”

A strange sort of thrill ran through Draco, and he licked his lips nervously. Harry cried at the thought of Draco dying? “Oh. I’m not…going to,” he said awkwardly.

Harry nodded. “I know.” His voice had gone softer, and his eyes flicked to the window, like he was looking for some sort of escape.

Confused, Draco studied him for a moment and then said, “You were always better at Defense Against The Dark Arts. Come here and teach me this, I don’t understand it.” He gestured to the page opened in his textbook, and Harry turned back.

“What is it?”

Pulling the chair out next to him, Draco said, “Come here and see. It’s frustrating me.” He didn’t even remember what he’d been attempting to study, but it was an excuse to distract Harry from whatever was making him sad, and an excuse to have the other boy sit beside him. Which shouldn’t matter, given that Draco had decided, during his own sleepless night, that they were blood enemies still. But it did.

***

Draco procrastinated going to the library after class the next day as long as he could. There was a simple reason for it: he was terrified. Lying awake late into the night and staring at his roof, he had carefully thought things over, mentally plotting the strange course events had taken recently and the destination he was arriving at, and he had panicked.

He did not, would not, and certainly did not want to have what was amounting to a schoolboy crush on Harry Potter.

There could be other reasons behind it, he had decided, because ‘schoolboy crush’ and ‘Harry Potter’ in the same sentence had so panicked him, that Draco had started shaking. Other reasons why he liked to watch Harry, talk to Harry, wanted Harry close enough so that their arms brushed while they studied. Dreamed about Harry. Thousands of other reasons to explain this strange behavior away. Like he was ill, he’d gone mad, he was under a spell. Because he hated him, wanted him dead, loathed him with the fire of a thousand suns.

Lies, of course. Claiming hatred was ridiculous because Draco had hated before and never, in all his years, had that hatred included having his stomach flutter every time the object of his hatred glanced up, brushed his hair off his forehead, met his eyes, and smiled.

Not hatred then. But certainly not a crush.

Procrastinating his inevitable meeting with Harry seemed the best alternative to liking and possibly being just a tiny bit in love (Draco didn’t believe in love, he didn’t, he never had, he couldn’t, especially not with Harry) with him. Impossible, really.

The only thing, actually, that kept him writing a babbling, hysterical owl to his father about having a crush on a boy was that the boy was Harry Potter, and somehow that made it seem…safe. Draco couldn’t explain that. Had he found himself having strange dreams about Blaise or Goyle or Professor Snape, he would have owled home right away begging for a holiday at St. Mungo’s.

But this was Harry. It made it somehow different, and kept the core of him calm, as if this were somehow inevitable. The rest of him, the thinking, breathing, rational part that was not his subconscious and had no control over his dreams… that part of him was a wreck, however.

He was not so nervous as to relish the thought of Dumbledore’s fury should he skip out on this study session, and Draco screwed up his face into a desperate scowl and threw the library door open, sweeping into it with a cold sort of determination not to care that he was just a little looking forward to this.

His cold facade lasted until he found Harry with his face resting on his books (still closed, of course), facing the window, fast asleep.

Pausing, Draco blinked slowly and then rolled his eyes, a reluctant and oddly tender smile flickering over his lips. The sun was hitting Harry’s face, glinting off his hair, and he had one of his hands under his cheeks, pillowing it.

Draco slid into the seat across from him and contemplated what to do. Part of him whispered temptingly that it would be quite pleasant to sit here and watch him sleep all afternoon and even all through the night.

Reacting to that idea like he’d been stung, Draco left the table quickly, his hands shaking. He wandered through the shelves of books, trying to calm himself down and focus on the idea that he did not enjoy watching Harry sleep. At all.

He found himself in the aisle that Harry frequented often, with the books on ancient cultures and traditions. Sighing a bit, he took a smaller book off the top shelf and went back to the table, glancing hesitantly at Harry to make sure he was still asleep.

An hour later, a page of notes in front of him and a satisfied smile on his lips, Draco set his quill aside and looked at Harry again. Still sleeping, breathing deeply, his eyelids flickering as he dreamed.

“Harry,” Draco called softly, smirking a bit, “This is getting ridiculous, wake up.” Harry didn’t, and Draco leaned across the table, resting his chin on his arm and reaching out with one hand, running his fingernail up and down the bridge of Harry’s nose, causing him to wrinkle it and twitch a bit. “C’mon,” he laughed, amused at the sleepy scowl on Harry’s lips. “Time to get up. C’mon, Potter…”

Moaning and flinching away from his hand, Harry turned his face and buried it in the crook of his arm. Snickering quietly, Draco tugged a bit of his hair that had fallen over his arm, twisting the dark lock lightly. Harry finally lifted his head, blinking a bit and looking sleepily ruffled and confused. Draco let his hand fall to the table.

“What?” Harry asked huskily, running his hand through his hair to tidy it.

Draco laughed. “You slept forever!”

“In the library?” He glanced around again, frowning thoughtfully.

“No, I snuck into your common room and found you asleep in an armchair and carried you here,” Draco said sarcastically.

“I remember,” Harry accused suddenly, his eyes, still a little glazed from sleep, narrowing as they flew back to Draco’s face. “You were late.”

“I didn’t realize that your life is so boring and meaningless without me around that your first instinct is to fall asleep.” It was better than explaining why he’d been late, of course.

“You probably welcomed the chance to study without me distracting you,” Harry grumbled, still huffy at being woken up.

“You think you’re not distracting even when you’re sleeping?” Draco winced; the words were out before he’d had a chance to reconsider.

Frowning, Harry asked slowly, “What do you mean? I was asleep. I couldn’t distract you.”

Desperate for a subject change, Draco said suddenly, “I think it was the Vikings.”

“That distracted you?” He looked even more sleepily confused and Draco’s stomach did not get all fluttery at the adorableness of that.

“The Vikings. With the funeral barges. You know, the boats with the bodies and the fire? I don’t know if they used arrows, but a lot of ancient cultures used that tradition, for a while. Saxons, Germanic tribes. There’s even a rumor that King Arthur was laid to rest in a funeral barge.” Draco reported it all in a practically toneless voice, like he was reciting something from a textbook. Nothing like quoting dry facts about funerals to make his stomach stop doing that. Damn it. He was going mad.

“You… you researched that?”

Draco shrugged, refusing to admit the fact that the surprise and gratefulness in Harry’s eyes in anyway mattered to him. “I had a bit of free time a few days ago.”

“Oh. So it was the vikings?” Harry said softly, a smile tilting the corners of his lips, though it wasn’t happy, but rather wistful. Nodding once, he whispered, “Thank you.”

Sliding his parchment of notes over to Harry, Draco suddenly felt awkward. He hadn’t known Harry would react to it that way or he probably wouldn’t have done it. It was dangerous to his whole ‘you do not think Harry’s cute’ idea. “Yeah.”

For a long while, their eyes held, some strange tension growing between them. It grew so strong that it was like an electric tingle on his skin, and Draco was relieved when Harry flicked his eyes away nervously.

Oh god. Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reaffirming to himself that there was no way he was doing this, despite evidence to the contrary.

He opened his books and stared sightlessly at them, tracing the same sentence over and over with his eyes and not registering a word. When Harry kicked him under the table, Draco jumped a bit and raised his head. It was like he’d just been waiting for an excuse to look at Harry again, but Draco didn’t like to think about that. “Yeah?”

“What’re you reading?” Harry asked, playfully. He seemed to have gotten over his irritation, and the parchment of notes on funeral barges was gone, tucked away somewhere.

“History notes.”

“Yeah, but what part? Because you’ve been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes.” Harry smirked.

“But to know that, you had to have been watching me for all that time, which is even sadder, really, Potter.” He kicked him back under the table lightly, grinning at him. “Besides, it’s a fascinating passage.”

Before Draco could react, Harry had snatched his notes away, reading aloud. “’Traditionally, a hand-fasting between a male and female goblin lasted only until they had consummated the marriage, thereby destroying their lust for one another.’ Hmm. Fascinating.”

“Indeed. I happen to find the mating rituals of goblins incredibly fascinating,” Draco drawled, stealing the pages back and smiling challengingly.

Harry laughed, and Draco’s smile faltered a bit into a rather confused frown. “What?” Harry asked.

“You. You were upset yesterday, bitchy a minute ago, and now you’re laughing. Why?”

Shrugging, his eyes slipping away nervously, Harry said, “Sometimes I don’t like to think about all the things I’m supposed to be upset over.”

“Like what?” The mood had changed abruptly, from playful to something incredibly darker, and it felt like trying to walk carefully across ice that was cracking beneath their feet.

“Like… All of them. I can’t quite list them now, can I? I’ve forgotten them, like I said.” He spoke lightly, but his eyes were focused on the table, and Draco let it drop. It was hard to have a conversation like that, where it was obvious one bad step would blow up in his face, especially if he didn’t know what it was he was supposed to be walking around.

“You are singularly the most complicated person I’ve ever met,” Draco decided finally, smiling ruefully.

“How do you mean?” Harry cried. “I’m a terribly simple person, really, just like you!”

“Oh, and you think you’ve got me all figured out, do you?” Draco sounded almost…flirtatious. His smirk faded and his eyes widened as panic, hit him.

But it was somehow alright a second later when Harry’s eyes flew to Draco’s face and a small, almost shy smile curved his lips. He ducked his head and glanced up nervously, a slow flush rising to his cheeks, and then he mumbled, “Well, yes, actually. And I thought you’d had me figured out too.”

Draco snorted, but he was grinning. It was easy to forget the terror, though, when Harry smiled at him like _that_.

***

'Good afternoon, Harry.'

He nodded a bit, feeling nervous. 'I was told you wanted to see me, headmaster?'

'I did. I understand today is your second session with Sirius?' Dumbledore smiled at him and motioned for him to be seated.

Dropping into a chair, Harry said, 'Yes. Actually, he's probably waiting for me now...' he trailed off hopefully.

'I told him you would be a little late today, don't worry.' Dumbledore studied Harry for a moment and then said, 'I called you here because I wished to discuss something with you. Do you know why you've got that scar on your forehead?'

'Voldemort tried to kill me,' Harry said, frowning. He didn't know if he could handle another one of Dumbledore's discussions and could only wonder what confession he was about to hear this time.

'Yes, but the scar was because you started to die. That's how we know your mother's spell wasn't complete. You started to die, just a little bit, and ...'

'I started to _die_? Part of me _died_?' Harry cried.

'Not enough of you to matter, Harry, just enough to give you the scar. Then your mother, who was already dead, used her last thought before she drifted off to the Other World to enact the spell.'

'The half spell,' Harry corrected. 'She didn't do it right.'

'Had she not cast the spell at all, you wouldn't be here even now.' It was the closest Dumbledore had ever come to being abrupt with him, and Harry was stunned. 'I understand that you're scared and I understand that this is hard to accept, but we are doing the best we can, Harry. As did your mother. If it weren't for her, you would have died a baby. Sixteen years is surely better than only one.' His voice was gentler now. 'It does no honour to your mother's memory, to dwell on what she was unable to give you rather than being thankful for what she did give you.'

'I'm going to die in a month and you want me to be _thankful_?'

'I want you to be thankful that because of your mother, you have lived for nearly sixteen years. Do not give up hope, Harry, because even your mother, as she died, still had it. You owe her that much at least.'

His eyes were stinging and Harry felt the juvenile need to lash out at something, anything, because he was feeling powerless, and underneath it all, suddenly guilty. 'What is this?' he said spitefully. 'Last week's session with Sirius didn't go well enough so you thought this week you'd call me in here first to loosen me up a bit so I'd talk? So I'd cry? Do you _want_ me to cry? Maybe this whole thing is just some stupid... stupid...' His voice cracked, but he was not going to cry. 'Stupid game to make me cry.'

'I don't play games that make people cry,' Dumbledore said very quietly. 'I'm just trying to make you understand.'

'Understand _what_?'

'That you've been given a gift. A very valuable gift.'

'And now it's being taken away,' Harry said, sounding sulky even to his own ears.

Dumbledore just watched him solemnly until Harry felt very small. He squirmed and said quietly, 'I'd like to go see Sirius now.' He swallowed heavily and felt like he was bleeding and just couldn't tell from where.

'Of course. He's waiting for you in his room.'

He nodded and walked blindly from the office, feet taking him instinctively to Sirius' room. Knocking, he waited a second and then walked in, sitting woodenly in an armchair. Sirius, who'd been sitting in the other chair reading a book, looked up at him and smiled a bit.

'I didn't know how long you'd be in with Dumbledore,' he said.

Harry wasn't quite listening. He was breathing quickly, short little bursts of panicky air, and his eyes flicked around the room nervously, as if he were afraid to rest them in any one place too long because if they weren't moving, they'd be welling up with tears. 'I,' he whimpered, and that one syllable burned. He gave up on the rest of the sentence, didn't really know what he'd been trying to say anyway.

Setting his book aside, Sirius studied Harry's face for a long moment and then said, 'I brought you something. I wasn't sure if you wanted it last week, so I saved it. Here, let me get it.'

He got up and went over to a large trunk, rummaging through it for a moment and then returning to his chair with a book, handing that book to Harry. The cover was unremarkable, just plain, cracked leather, and for a long time, Harry just stared at it, stroking his fingers along the spine. 'What is it?'

'It was a birthday gift. From Remus, James and... and Peter.'

Peter's name nearly made Harry long to drop the book with a hiss, but his father's kept him holding on. His fingers closed over the spine and he hugged it a little closer to his chest.

'Open it,' Sirius prompted gently. He came and stood behind the chair, so he could see over Harry's shoulder. 'When I went to Azkaban, that night, Remus went to my house and took all my things, to keep them safe for me. He thought I'd betrayed them all, but I guess he just didn't want... didn't want my things taken and sold. He gave this back to me just before I came here.'

Harry didn't open the book so much as let go and it spilled open on his lap. It was a photo album, so many moving pictures crammed onto the pages that it nearly made him dizzy. Fingers trembling, he flipped to beginning.

Hagrid had given him an album, of course, at the end of his first year, but this was different. This was made by his father, for his father's friend. It contained pictures he’d never seen before.

There was his father, slowly growing up from picture to picture. Eleven, then suddenly fourteen, fifteen, seventeen, and then an adult, and then nothing. And Lily, a pretty girl with a huge grin. She came into the book when she looked about sixteen, and only lasted the last few pages. Sirius, Remus, and Peter, all smiling, shoving each other, smirking. Looking up from books and chess games, rolling their eyes as if they were too busy for the picture but someone had insisted. There weren't any pictures of the four of them together until they were sixteen and Lily had arrived to take them. Before that, one of them was always taking the picture.

The last picture was of his parents sitting together on a couch, smiling at each other and ignoring the camera, and Sirius was in the far right of the frame, grinning.

'That was the day she found out she was pregnant,' Sirius said softly, and Harry tensed. So he was in that picture, sort of. He studied his mother but could find no sign of his presence.

As he watched, his father reached up and smoothed a lock of his mother's hair out of her face. They were both beaming, glowing. Because of him.

It was too much and Harry slammed the book shut, though he pulled it to his chest and hugged it.

'Thank you.' It was more because he was expected to say it than that he was particularly thankful. He didn't know if he could deal with this, this evidence that his formerly almost faceless, bodiless parents, particularly his mother, so easy to blame for all of his current troubles, had glowed because of him.

'You should have seen James the night you were born,' Sirius said, still behind him, looking over his shoulder at the worn leather. Harry flinched; he didn't want pictures, he didn't want stories, he wanted someone to direct his anger at. But Sirius didn't care, and kept talking. Story after story, like they'd been waiting inside his brain, all these stories with all these details, just waiting to spill out of his mouth like diamonds.

Harry wondered with a vague sort of panic if it was stories like this that had kept Sirius sane in Azkaban.

Finally, the sun had set and Sirius seemed finished. Harry stood up; he could barely see straight, barely move, and clutched the album to his chest. 'Homework,' he lied, before lurching from the room.

He made it halfway back to Gryffindor tower before his legs gave out and Harry sunk to the floor, the book slipping from his fingers and landing with a thump. He buried his face in his arms, folded over his bent knees, and he cried.

All the while he cried, loud, harsh sobs, he waited and waited for Draco to show up and save him, but he didn't.

Sometimes you've got to save yourself, he decided, getting to his feet. And sometimes you've just got to go in search of someone to pick your pieces up for you.

The thing about falling apart is that picking your pieces back up and building yourself up exactly as you had been before rather wastes the opportunity to put them back differently, to sculpt yourself into something new and more complicated, stronger, so that you never fell apart again. Or, if you did, you wouldn't fall quite so far.

***

Studying with Harry had resulted in more studying of Harry, so Draco spent most of his evenings studying alone in the library. Harry had never bothered showing up before, and quite understandably, as he intended to fail his exams, so Draco was rather startled when the other boy wandered in, looking like his entire world was falling down around him. His face was white, his eyes huge and glazed, and he was holding a giant book.

'Oh, please,' Draco sighed. 'Don't let it be another book about death.'

Harry made his way over to the table and fell heavily into the chair across from him, dropping the book like a stone. 'Hi.'

'Hello,' Draco replied cautiously. 'What are you doing here?'

'I was talking to Sirius.'

Draco nodded slowly, still trying to figure out exactly what had happened to put that stunned, bruised look in Harry's eyes. 'About what?'

'My mum and my dad.'

'What about them?'

'How much they... how much they l-loved me.'

He frowned a bit, confused and feeling a little helpless. How could he help if he couldn’t even understand? 'Do you miss them?'

'How do you miss someone you never knew?'

'I don't know. What's that book?'

Harry slid it towards him and flipped it over to the last page. 'Pictures,' he said. 'That one there, that was the day they found out about me. See? Look at her, she's beaming.'

'You look just like your father,' Draco said, studying the picture. He flipped a few pages back, watching as James got younger and younger, until he looked to be fifteen. They looked nearly identical, except that James had a huge, crooked grin, and Harry's eyes looked older.

Harry made a strange choking noise and Draco’s head snapped up. The other boy was trying desperately not to cry.

Slamming the book shut, Draco stood up quickly and tugged Harry to his feet. 'C'mon,' he said abruptly, pulling him from the library.

In a tiny voice, Harry asked, 'Where are we going?'

'Well, I've noticed you generally like to go to the lake when you're upset.'

'You're taking me down to the lake?'

'Yes.'

'...Alright.'

Draco led him out the doors and into the dark night, over the grounds, and onto the pier. Then he pulled his robes off, and his shirt, and his trousers. 'C'mon. We're going swimming.'

Looking relieved and mildly amused, Harry said, 'But Draco, you do know there's a giant squid in there.' His eyes were still shadowed and bruised.

'Fuck the squid, I dare it to even try to fuck around with me today,' Draco said. 'Take your clothes off.' And then, teasingly, 'It's not like I haven't seen you naked before.'

Shooting him a strange glance that instantly made Draco’s skin tighten and his stomach clench with nervousness, Harry started doing just that, and soon had left all of his clothes and his glasses behind, running and leaping off the edge of the pier. Draco saw a quick flash of moonlight hitting naked skin, and then Harry was gone. He took a deep breath and pulled his boxers off before slipping into the water, which was cold silk against his skin.

Harry was floating on his back in the middle of the lake, staring up at the sky, and Draco swam over to him, flicking his dripping hair out of his eyes. He touched Harry's chest, mostly because he couldn't help himself from wanting to trace his fingers through the beads of water there, and Harry turned his head and smiled a bit, shifting so that he was treading water like Draco was.

'Thank you,' he said, aching sadness so deep and complete that Draco's first instinct was to pull away, in case a darkness like that was contagious.

Harry's eyes slowly closed and he let his head tilt back and his arms spread wide. 'I'm so tired,' he whispered.

Grabbing his arm, Draco studied the cuts there, but they were all old, and he let Harry go, relieved. 'Sleep, then.'

'It's not that sort of tired.' Harry straightened up again, his eyes different now. Almost vibrating with some strange sort of angry energy, and he swam a little closer, so that Draco could feel the shock waves of his movements rippling through the water and brushing against his legs. He reached out and smoothed a lock of Draco’s hair up off his forehead and behind his ear. Harry's hand was trembling and his voice husky with tears. 'I think the best way to die would be to drown,' he said, his eyes flickering away. 'Do you think so? It would be so quiet, like floating away into sleep and not ever having to wake up.'

Instantly, Draco's hands were on Harry's upper arms, keeping the other boy afloat in case he decided that now was the time to find out for sure how peaceful drowning was. 'I swear,' he said gently, searching Harry's face for any indication of what the other boy was thinking. 'Your moods change faster than anyone's I know. What do you want, Harry?'

Harry sniffled and closed his eyes, smiling a little. 'That's the millionth time you've asked me that.'

'You didn't answer the first time.'

'A spot on the Puddlemere Quidditch team. A lifetime supply of butterbeer. Some stock in the Weasley joke shop. A house. Parents who aren't dead. A faster broom. A first kiss. A date with ...'

'A first kiss? You've never been kissed?'

'... A date with Marsha Englemen, that girl who models women's Quidditch ...'

Draco interrupted again. 'You're not being serious, Harry. Tell me seriously. What do you want?'

Harry was quiet for a long moment, and then he said in a tiny voice, 'What if I can't tell you that? I only know what I don't want...'

'And what's that?'

But Harry's eyes were going dark, colour draining away, and his lower lip was trembling. The legendary Harry Potter was going to cry? His Gryffindor courage seemed to have deserted him, and Draco was terrified. He didn't want to see Harry cry, it just wasn't right.

Harry opened his lips and a small, shaky breath came out, his eyes meeting Draco's pleadingly, as if he couldn't find the words and wanted Draco to find them for him. But Draco didn't even know where to start.

He finally decided to start with Harry's lower lip, because it was shaking. Butterflies in his stomach and a strange, nearly paralyzing fear came over him, but Draco ignored it, and the way his hands were trembling when they slipped up and traced Harry's lower lip.

'What are you doing?' Harry whispered shakily.

'I don't know,' Draco replied quietly, biting his lip to keep it from trembling as well.

Harry's eyes were huge and shining and colour was leaking back into them as he gazed at Draco with naked trust shining from the green depths, visible even in the darkness.

There was no sound as Draco closed his eyes and pulled Harry forward a tiny bit, except for the lapping of water and the distant chirp of crickets. Their lips met awkwardly, their noses bumped, and Draco was so scared that he whimpered low in his throat. His hands were still on Harry's face, and for a long moment, they didn't move or breathe or so much as think, because thinking would only increase the terror.

And then Harry shifted a little, instinctively tilting his head so their lips slid together, his hands nervously coming up to rest on Draco's shoulders. Letting his breath out in a relieved sigh, Draco responded to that, encouraged by the fact that Harry wasn't screaming in a mad panic yet. He didn't know what he was doing but it seemed right, the answer to all the weird things he'd been feeling lately.

Which didn't make them any less terrifying.

But still, he, at least, had been kissed before. Harry, by his own admission, hadn't been, and that made Draco feel a little more confident. He moved closer, one hand slipping behind Harry's neck to support his head as he forced him to tilt it back a bit, deepening the kiss.

Harry's fingers dug into his shoulders, whether in panic or something else, Draco wasn't sure, and just because he didn't wish to scare him further (or himself, for that matter), Draco pulled back, though he kept his hand on the back of Harry's neck, the other slipping down to his upper arm to hold him above the water.

Harry's eyes were shining with tears.

'What?' Draco whispered, panic making him tense.

'I don't want to die,' Harry said, so softly that Draco was sure he hadn't heard him right.

'What?' he asked again, more gently now, his fingers playing in the hair at the base of Harry's skull.

'I don't want to die,' Harry repeated, the words bursting from his lips like a dam had broken, and they sounded more like a sob than anything. And then Harry was crying. Huge, hiccupping, painful sort of sobs.

'Oh. Oh shit. Harry. Harry, calm down,' Draco said, holding him up as Harry's strength gave out. 'Shh. It's alright, it's alright, you're not going to die.'

His chest heaving, Harry let his head fall weakly to Draco's shoulder, clinging to him and burying his head in Draco's neck. 'I am,' he whimpered.

Draco felt something inside him die a little then, turning cold, and he shivered, stroking Harry's back. 'You're not,' he said firmly.

'I am. On my birthday, in a month, I'm going to die.'

'No.'

'Dumbledore told me so.' Harry's voice was toneless, resigned.

A few things snapped into place then for Draco, and he whispered. 'When did he tell you that?'

'The day I broke my hand against the wall.'

Oh. Just before the strange behaviour and the anger and the cutting and the skipping class... Draco slowly closed his eyes. 'Why?' he whimpered.

'I don't know!' Harry cried. 'It doesn't make any sense, nothing makes any sense. I don't want to die, I don't want... I can't...'

'You never even told me!'

'I didn't tell anyone.'

'But I could have... I didn't even... I could have helped you...' He sounded as lost as he felt.

Harry pulled away now, though he still held on to Draco's shoulders, his face pale and eyes enraged. 'You did,' he whispered harshly.

'How?'

'You were there. Even when I didn't want to be there, whenever I'd get so scared that I couldn't breathe, you just showed up and... and healed whatever I'd done to myself and... and you were always so... alive and I was always worried that I was fading away and I didn't really exist at all but there was no way I could feel like this was a dream whenever you looked at me because the... the way you looked at me, like now... I... needed it to be real so badly.' He stopped abruptly and snapped his mouth shut, shaking his head.

Draco could only stare at him, a tragic sort of wonder over taking him as he thought frantically of what he could say now, what would make all this better. 'What... what can I do to make this go away?'

'I was kinda... hoping... you could tell me,' Harry said in a small voice, sniffling a bit. 'It still doesn't seem quite real.' He laughed shakily. 'Every time I start feeling like this is a dream, I... that's when I...' He gestured to his arm, the cuts still visible through the shimmering water.

'No,' Draco snarled, furious suddenly. 'No. You're not going to do that, Harry, never ever again, I won't let you!' That, at least, was something he could control. 'If you want to remember that this isn't a dream,' he said desperately, still angry, 'then find another way to make yourself feel. Every time you feel like that... I'll... I'll kiss you to remind you it's real ...'

Harry smiled a bit and said softly, 'That just makes it feel more like a dream.'

It seemed the height of irony then, that Draco could finally be there, with Harry, like this, could finally kiss him and touch him and know that Harry wasn't going to run, didn't find it wrong, only to learn that it wouldn't be forever. He gradually let go of Harry, moving away a little, so he could think. 'I... I don't think it's true,' he said finally. 'You can't just die because Dumbledore said so.'

His voice quiet, Harry explained, 'The spell my mother used to save my life from Voldemort was incomplete because she was dead when she cast it, and it is only strong enough to give me a childhood, which technically ends when I turn sixteen, which is on July thirty-first.'

'No.'

'Draco.'

'No.'

Harry sighed and slowly closed his eyes. 'You think this is easy for me? I don't... I don't want to die. Sixteen isn't enough. I want seventeen, and twenty, and thirty, and even eighty. I want to see the whole world. I want to go to France and I want to go to America, and I want... want to watch the sunrise over the rooftops of London and go on a safari in Africa and I want... want...' He swallowed and looked away, because he was crying again. Not the harsh sobs of before, but something gentler. 'I want to learn to dance so I don't embarrass myself again like last year. And I want to learn all there is to know about magic and the wizarding world. I want to play professional Quidditch, and I want... to move out of my uncle's house...'

Draco tried to say something flippant. Tried to say something about how Harry had just said moments before that he didn't know what he wanted, and here he was listing all sorts of things he wanted. Instead he just floated there, water slipping through his fingers, lapping against his shoulders.

Finally, in a very low voice, he said angrily, 'You're not going to die, Harry.'

A small, sad smile curved Harry’s lips upwards, and he whispered, 'You think I've got a choice?'

'I'm not going to let you die! I'm not going to let you go! You think that there's a chance in hell that I could ...'

He didn't finish. His angry words broke and he was crying. Draco Malfoy never cried, but here he was, naked in a lake with Harry Potter, sobbing like a baby. And Harry was there suddenly, his chest pressed to Draco's, his arms around his shoulders, and he was kissing him desperately, trying to make him stop.

It was an awkward kiss; Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world who was supposed to have died almost fifteen years before, didn't know how to kiss.

What it lacked in grace, however, it made up in pure emotion, because his entire body was trembling, and he was stroking Draco's face with shaky, wet hands, trying to dry his tears and succeeding only in washing them away. His lips were shaking too, Draco could feel it, and Harry's breath kept hitching like he was trying not to cry.

Draco realized then how unfair it was that he could twist this, make it about him being scared rather than Harry. Make Harry worry about him. He wasn't the one who was going to die.

He was still crying, but softer now, and he slid one arm around Harry to pull him closer, pinning him against his chest because Harry seemed to have forgotten to keep kicking. Closing his eyes, he kissed Harry back firmly, smoothly taking control of it, gentling it, kicking a little until they were in shallower water, standing on the muddy bottom of the lake.

The kiss changed then, stopped being an almost chaste press of lips, stopped being about making Draco feel stronger, and started being about comforting Harry, reassuring him, letting him know, the way Draco didn't seem to have the words to, that there was no way he was going to die.

Pressing closer, Draco ran a hand up Harry's naked back, water swirling around them at the motion. His other hand slipped up to Harry's jaw, tilting his face gently so their lips fit together perfectly, the way they were supposed to. He could feel Harry's heartbeat change, from panicky to something somehow softer.

One of Harry's hands slipped up Draco's chest, until it was flattened between them, and he wrapped his arm instinctively around Draco's shoulders. Their bodies were pressed together, chests, hips, and thighs, and it was the first time Draco had ever been this close to another person without any clothes, but it wasn't as scary as he’d thought it would be, nor was he as nervous. It was just Harry. Nothing could be wrong when it was Harry.

He opened his lips cautiously, uncertain of how far he could push this, how far until it became something it wasn't supposed to be. Something more than comfort that he wasn't quite sure he could handle right then without some sort of guilt because Harry needed something but certainly not that.

His tongue flicked lightly against Harry's lower lip and he felt the other boy tense nervously. Stroking his back until Harry relaxed against him again, Draco did it again, tracing it this time, pulling it into his mouth lightly, still stroking his back, keeping him calm. Giving him this because he didn't know what else he had to give to make this better.

The hand at Harry's jaw pressed into his skin a little, gently coaxing him to open his mouth, and Harry was trembling when he did, his arm flexing nervously around Draco's shoulders.

Trying to calm him, Draco made a small noise in the back of his throat as his tongue slipped into Harry's mouth, a strange sort of warm purr, still stroking him, his back and his cheek. It was different than Draco thought it would be. He'd never kissed a boy before, had only really kissed Lisa. She had kissed like she was trying to decide whether or not she could develop a taste for something, and Harry kissed as if he had discovered something he could never get enough of but wasn't sure if it was something he had a right to taste. With Lisa, it had been trying to see how far she'd let him go, and with Harry... It was different. More fragile by far. Gently coaxing and cradling and ripping down barriers Draco had been hiding behind all his life and inviting Harry to take anything and everything he'd been sheltering behind them. It was something far, far deeper and darker and more frightening.

He didn't want to scare him, Harry must be scared enough already, and so Draco kept it gentle, just a bare taste, a light brushing of his tongue against Harry's, and then he pulled back, resting his forehead against Harry's, his eyes opening.

Harry kept his closed, erratic breath brushing Draco's lips. 'Are you alright?' Draco asked, a little shyly.

Nodding, Harry let his head slip down, until it rested on Draco's shoulder, his face turned into the side of Draco's neck. 'Yeah,' he whispered, his lips brushing Draco's throat.

'Everything's going to be alright, Harry. I'll take care of this. I'll take care of you.'

Harry nodded again, and Draco tightened his arms around him, his eyes wide and shining in the darkness with a panic he refused to show. He would figure this out, he would beat this. He would.

'Draco?' Harry whispered suddenly.

'Yeah?'

'We kissed, didn't we?' he mumbled, and Draco realized that Harry was almost falling asleep. He smiled a bit, a painful smile.

'Yeah, I think so.'

'Oh.'

'Is that... is that okay?'

Harry lifted his head and he was smiling, just a little. 'I think so.' And then he kissed Draco again, like he was just checking, just to be sure. A brief, soft, sweet kiss, and his smile was bigger now. 'Yeah. Yeah, it is,' he whispered, ducking his head shyly.

'Right. You're exhausted, we better go back in.'

'I don't want to go back to Gryffindor Tower. I want to stay with you.'

Draco pulled Harry closer, resting his chin on his head. 'Alright,' he said quietly. 'I'm going to be in the library, you can come with me. Past experience suggests you've got no problem sleeping in the library.'

Twenty minutes and a few drying charms later, they crept into the library. It was after hours and they weren't technically allowed in the library then, but Draco didn't care.

He pretended to study until Harry had fallen asleep, head pillowed on his arms. He guessed it must have been rather draining, the entire day. First the album with his parents' pictures, then the kiss, and confessing everything... He studied Harry's face for a long moment and then sighed, finally letting his shoulders slump, burying his face in his hands.

'It's alright. It's alright.' He got up and went into the rows of books, scanning the titles and selecting a few.

He worked until dawn, researching everything he could about the spell. By morning, he didn't know much more than he had when he started.

Harry hadn't told him much, really, and Draco hadn't wanted to wake him to pry for more details. He didn't want Harry to talk of this at all, or to think of it. He'd said he’d fix it, and he would. Besides, Draco knew of at least one other person in the school who had to know more than Harry did about it and he fully intended on confronting him at breakfast.

Which, he realized blearily, would be in about twenty minutes.

He got up, leaving his things, and coming around the table, shaking Harry gently. 'Wake up,' he called quietly. He didn't know why he was suddenly treating Harry like he was fragile, like glass, but it seemed the thing to do. Because somehow, when he wasn't looking, Harry had come to mean the world to him.

'What?' Harry mumbled thickly, blinking and glancing around. 'This is the library.'

Draco couldn't help but smile. 'It is. C'mon, I'll walk you back to Gryffindor Tower, you're too exhausted to go to class today.' He took his arm and pulled Harry to his feet, lacing his fingers through the other boy's and tugging him towards the door. Following obediently, Harry still looked sleepily puzzled.

'I don't want to go to Gryffindor,' he said suddenly, stopping and digging his heels into the stone floor. 'Hermione will make me go to class.'

'She's probably already at breakfast,' Draco replied, tugging at his hand.

'She'll come back for me. She always does. I'll stay here.'

'I'm not leaving you alone asleep in the library,' Draco said, sighing at the inevitability of it all. 'C'mon then.'

Harry didn't even question it when Draco took him into the dungeons, up into his dorm, and shoved him lightly until he was curled up on the bed, Draco's blankets tossed over top of him, the hangings pulled tight.

'Don't leave the bed. Don't steal anything. I'll be back in a bit.'

Harry hadn't even heard; he was already asleep.

***

Breakfast was just ending when Draco walked into the Great Hall, easily ignoring the suspicious stares thrown at him from his housemates. He had, after all, not returned to his dorm last night, and they had to have figured out by now that whomever he’d been with, it hadn’t been a Slytherin. He didn’t care. Hopefully they didn’t compare notes with the Gryffindors and find out that Harry hadn’t slept there either. Draco didn’t need a full out house war right now on top of everything else.

The headmaster was still sitting at the High Table, though most of the professors had left to prepare for their classes. Climbing the stairs onto the platform, Draco made his way over to where Dumbledore sat discussing something with Professor Flitwick, who didn’t have a class that morning. Draco waited almost patiently for them to become aware of his presence.

It was Dumbledore who finally glanced over at him, looking mildly curious. “Mr. Malfoy. Is there something I can do for you?”

“It’s about Harry.”

That got all of Dumbledore’s attention, and he turned back to Flitwick, excusing himself graciously and then standing, leading Draco out of the Hall. As they walked, he asked almost casually, “You and Harry have become friends then, have you?”

Draco felt his face flush the tiniest bit and he licked his lips and said uncomfortably, “Sorta. I guess.”

“I must admit, Draco, that I’m surprised the two of you are able to get on at all. However, I’m grateful for it. Now then, what is it you wished to discuss?”

Deciding that directness was the best way to get the information he needed, Draco said abruptly, “Have you found anything to stop him from dying?”

Dumbledore stopped so suddenly that Draco had taken three steps before realizing that he’d left the headmaster behind. He turned, and Dumbledore said quietly, “Harry told you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s quite strange. That he trusts you that much.”

This put Draco on the defensive, as if Dumbledore were insinuating that he was not trustworthy. He stiffened and said, “He doesn’t seem to think it’s strange. Besides, if it’s a secret that was meant to be kept, it was his choice, not yours. It’s him that’s going to… that’s… he’s the one who…” he trailed off, and Dumbledore touched his shoulder gently.

“I did not mean to offend, Mr. Malfoy. The strangeness is not that he trusts you, but that he _only_ trusts you. Harry hasn’t discussed this with anyone, not me, not his godfather, not his best friends. He refuses to mention it, acts angry and sullen if either Sirius or I mention it. We have been worried that he was in denial, that he would do something reckless.”

“And why shouldn’t he?” Draco asked, lifting his eyebrows. “How would you react?” He was running out of patience.

“We are doing all we can. There is still hope.”

“Why did you warn him if there was still hope? Have you checked the dark books?”

“They would not be helpful,” Dumbledore said, too quickly. “The spell his mother cast is not a dark spell and there is no dark spell that can lengthen it, only spells that would cancel the energy and make him die faster.”

“A dark spell to stop Voldemort’s spell then.” Draco had come to see the entire thing as the two spells, the dark spell of Voldemort’s and the light spell of Lily Potter, warring for control over Harry.

“There is no way to cancel the Killing Curse, Draco, you know that.”

“You haven’t looked. I mean no disrespect, sir, but this is a unique case. If you would just look into the Dark Arts, there could be —”

“The end never justifies the means, Draco.”

“They bloody well do when the end is Harry’s death!” Draco cried. “What does it matter how you stop it, as long as Harry doesn’t die? What does it matter what book you find the answer in? A book can’t be good or bad, it’s only knowledge, and it’s how that knowledge is used that makes it good or bad! How can saving Harry be bad?”

“You haven’t yet learned the full nature of magic, Draco. In a few years, maybe you’ll understand.”

“I want to understand now.”

Looking weary, Dumbledore said, “Each time magic is used, the energy of it travels through the mind and the body, leaving a mark, like a fingerprint. It cannot be erased. Most magic is ambivalent. It is neither good nor bad. Other magic is inherently bad, and it leaves a stain. It corrupts, multiplies and spreads like a disease. I will not condone the use of dark magic, there is far too much of it in the world already it.”

“You would rather let Harry die?”

“I would give my life for Harry, but I will not make others suffer. If I were to use dark magic to save him, I do not know if I have the power to resist the spread of it inside me. I will not let myself use dark magic to save Harry if it means there is even a slight chance that it will overtake me.”

It didn’t make sense to Draco, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t risk if it meant even a chance that Harry would be alright. “Never mind,” he snapped. “I’ll do it myself.”

He turned to walk away and Dumbledore called his name quietly. Draco turned back, and Dumbledore said, “Good luck. And be careful with him, Draco. You’re the one he wants to protect him through all of this. Sirius and I will do what we can, but it’s you he wants.”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded and walked away.

***

It took him a long moment to realize that the roof above him was not his own. Panic ensued, because the shadows weren’t stretching the same way and the stone did not twist into the familiar cracks and bumps. Sitting up and sucking in a startled breath, he glanced around.

Draco’s bed. Slytherin house. He’d… they’d _kissed_. Oh god, he’d _told_! Told Draco that he was going to die! That made it _real_.

“Oh god.” _Oh god_. Before he could stop to think about it, Harry was up and out of the room. He ran through the common room, blinded by tears, secure only in the knowledge that he could only deny this if he never saw Draco again. Because now Draco knew, which meant that it was more than just a cruel trick being played on him by Dumbledore, which Sirius was going along with. That wasn’t all that rational either, but easier to believe than that he was going to die.

He ran through the halls, empty now as first class was well under way. Into the Gryffindor common room, up the stairs, he flew into his room, and the door slamming against the wall with all the force of his panic.

He’d run in the opposite direction of Hogsmeade, like Draco had said. Run fast. Maybe fly. Flying was faster. No one could catch Harry on a broom.

Swallowing shakily, Harry nodded to himself and threw his trunk open. He didn’t have much time. He had to leave, get out before Draco told anyone, before everyone knew. Before Draco came back and looked at him because Harry just knew that something in the way Draco saw him would have changed, and that change would be there, in his eyes, and Harry couldn’t stand the idea of something in Draco’s eyes changing.

He emptied his books out of his book bag and started cramming other things into it instead, things he couldn’t see living without. Invisibility cloak, some clothes, a bit of money… After a short hesitation, he slipped the album of his parents into his bag as well, and then grabbed his broom, glancing around the room. What else?

Hedwig. She’d find him, she always did.

That was it then. Glancing around again, Harry nodded and hurried from the room.

***

Draco had gone back to the library to take out a few books and then returned to his room, only to find the door wide open and the blanket tossed to the floor as if Harry had left so fast that it had still been draped over him when he left the bed. “Harry?” Draco called cautiously, but Harry wasn’t there. “Shit.”

He could only imagine what Harry was thinking now, or where he had gone. Hopefully just back to his own room, but with the way Harry had been acting, it was bound to be something more unpredictable and irrational.

“He’s just gone back to Gryffindor,” Draco said to himself reassuringly as he walked quickly towards Gryffindor tower.

The Fat Lady refused to let him in, but Draco only had to wait around for a few minutes before Hermione Granger came hurrying down the hall. She stopped abruptly when she saw him.

“Malfoy. What are you doing?”

“Looking for Harry, can you let me in?” He hated asking favours from her, but it was his only option.

“No.”

Thinking fast, Draco suggested instead, “Well, just check if he’s in there for me?”

“Ron told me he never came back to his bed last night. If you’ve gotten him in trouble again, Malfoy, I swear —”

“He was sleeping in the library,” Draco snapped, having no patience for this. “Can you just go check if he’s in there?”

“Did you hurt him? Did you have an argument with him or something?”

“No! I’m just... worried. Just go see if he’s there, will you?” he snarled, and Hermione, eyes narrowed, slipped inside, leaving him standing alone in the hall under the watchful eye of the Fat Lady.

A few minutes later, pale and worried, she peeked out at him and said, “He’s… not here. I think he’s… gone home. Or something.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“It looks like he’s packed and… and left.”

Cursing savagely, Draco shoved her out of the way and stalked into the common room. He blinked, momentarily blinded by the garish crimson and gold decorations, and then made his way towards the stairs.

Harry’s door was still open, and he stopped in the doorway, glancing around at the mess. His trunk was open, clothing flung about like a tornado had hit it. “Maybe he’s not gone,” he said. “Maybe he was looking for something.”

Stepping past him, Hermione shook her head. “He’s taken things. His broom, for one.”

“His broom?”

“He keeps it there.” She pointed to an empty corner.

Draco took a deep breath, striving for calm. So Harry had, for some reason, panicked and bolted from Hogwarts.

“I’ll go get Dumbledore,” Hermione said shakily, and Draco grabbed her arm.

“No. The last thing he needs is the whole school out after him, he’s just scared.”

“Scared of _what_? What did you do to him?” She was shouting, and the noise was giving Draco a headache.

“He’d have told you if he wanted you to know what he was scared of, now wouldn’t he?” he growled. “Just… stay here, shut up, I’ll find him and bring him back. I know which direction he’s gone.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I told him which direction to go! Now, just…stay here. And don’t tell anyone, for the love of Merlin.”

He walked out of Gryffindor Tower, summoning his broom even as he hurried out the front doors. Moments later, he was flying quickly away from the castle, in the opposite direction of Hogsmeade, grimly determined that Harry was _not_ getting away.

He didn’t get that far, really. Not even all the way over the forest, before he saw Harry, in a small clearing far below. He was lying on his back, arms and legs spread, broom tossed aside.

“Oh god,” Draco moaned softly, as he tilted his broom forward to dive to the ground. “He fell from his broom and I wasn’t there to catch him.”

But Harry hadn’t, he was perfectly fine. Just lying there, staring up at the sky blankly, face pale and eyes very wide. Draco didn’t quite know what to say, so he hesitated after he’d gotten off his broom. And then, carefully, “What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t do it,” Harry replied quietly.

“Couldn’t do what?”

“Leave.”

Slowly closing his eyes and dropping to his knees, Draco sighed and said, “I should hope not, Harry. Honestly, you don’t think I wouldn’t have chased you to the ends of the earth and forced you to come back?”

It was silent for a long, long time, and then Harry finally turned his head, blinking slowly. Draco could see streams from the corners of his eyes, marking the path tears had taken, straight down over his temple and into his hair. “I think I should like for you to kiss me again,” he said softly, closing his eyes. “Because everything’s getting blurry again and I want to rip off all my skin.”

Draco’s lower lip trembled and he swallowed heavily, reaching out and touching Harry’s jaw lightly, tilting his face up a bit. He leaned down and kissed him softly, carefully, barely touching him. It was Harry who reached up and slipped one hand behind Draco’s head, fingers tangling his hair, and jerked him down further, so that Draco was forced to catch his balance on his hands, one on either side of Harry’s head. Their lips pressed together hard now, and Harry’s mouth opened a tiny bit. He was trembling, hesitant and unsure, going on pure instinct, and Draco let his eyes flutter shut, nudging him in encouragement, stroking his face.

Harry’s tongue brushed Draco’s lower lip lightly, nervously, and Draco made a small noise of approval, reassurance, before reciprocating. Growing more confident now, Harry slipped his tongue inside Draco’s mouth, a careful sort of exploration, which Draco allowed because Harry was guiding the kiss this time, and he wasn’t sure what Harry wanted from him.

Letting his head fall back to the grass, Harry broke the kiss, breathing heavily through his nose, eyes still closed. Draco studied him for a long moment and then said softly, shakily, “What do you want from me, Harry?”

“Proof that this is real?”

“That what’s real?”

“Everything. Everything I told you. Everything I start believing in when you kiss me.”

“But what do you start believing in? I don’t understand…” His voice was husky, desperate, and Draco hated it. He tried pulling away, backing off, but Harry’s hand was still in his hair and didn’t let him go.

“That there’s something worth living for and it doesn’t matter because I’m going to die.”

“Do you want that to be real?” Draco whispered, and Harry finally opened his eyes. They were wild and a green that was nearly golden.

“Which part?”

His arms gave out suddenly and Draco fell on top of Harry, resting his head on the other boy’s shoulder. “The part… the part about something to live for.”

Now, instead of holding him there, Harry’s hand seemed to be stroking him, running his fingers through Draco’s hair, soothing him. He was quiet for a while, and then he said, “I was going to run so that I never had to see you again, because I had told you everything and that meant that I had admitted, finally, that it was real. I thought that if I never saw you again, I could go on pretending it wasn’t. But pretending it wasn’t real made me _think_ it wasn’t, and there are only two things that can keep things real for me. One, making myself bleed, and that only keeps it real because it reminds me, over and over, that I’m dying. Two, being with you, because it makes everything in the world so much more vivid, and even I can’t dream things that are as colourful and beautiful as the world is when I’m with you.” He swallowed, and Draco’s hand found his, the one that was twisted in the grass, clutching the blades. He smoothed it out and flattened his on top of Harry’s, palm to palm. “So the farther from Hogwarts I got, the easier it was to think it was all a dream. And I started getting confused, because I wanted parts of it to be a dream. Parts like that on my birthday, I’m gonna die. But at the same time, there were other parts I couldn’t stand to leave. You. And… and the way you kissed me.”

“So you waited for me?” Draco asked in a thick voice.

“I had to.”

“And now what do you want from me?”

“I’m only fifteen, Draco.”

“I know.”

Harry was nodding, his heart beat nervous. Then, he whispered, “When you find out that the oldest you’re ever going to be is fifteen, you start thinking differently.” “What do you mean?” Draco lifted his head, studying Harry’s face critically.

“I always thought that there was some secret to life that I hadn’t yet realized, some great big secret that everyone learns before they die. Now, I guess there isn’t. Or maybe there is, only you’ve got to reach a certain age before you learn it.” He was frowning, and Draco traced the frown with a fingernail.

“Or maybe the secret’s staring you in the face and you haven’t yet even realized it,” he said.

Harry’s eyes flashed to his. “Do you know what it is, Draco?” he asked innocently, and then he opened his lips and pulled Draco’s finger inside, sucking lightly on it, curiously, his tongue flickering against it, teeth grazing his knuckle.

“I-I think I might have a vague idea,” Draco stammered, eyes flying wide as he stared down at the way Harry’s lips had closed around his finger. Then they quirked and curved upwards in a playful smile, and Draco pulled his finger away. It was strange, seeing a playful grin matched with dark and sad eyes, but somehow the expression fit Harry’s face perfectly. As much a paradox as Harry himself was.

“Do you want —” Harry cut himself off there, frowning.

“Do I want what?” Draco asked. He shifted a little in the grass, licking his lips nervously.

“I’m not sure… I just… I think… I don’t know, I —”

He didn’t get any further because Draco had leaned down and placed a tiny kiss on his throat.

“Draco?”

“Mmm?” he replied absently, flicking his tongue out and licking Harry’s throat lightly, curiously. It tasted like he had always imagined Harry would taste, and Draco didn’t bother wondering when he’d ever sat and wondered what Harry’s skin would taste like. Instead, he opened his mouth a bit and sucked lightly.

Startled, Harry whimpered, trying to twist away and pull Draco closer at the same time. The result was that Draco lost his balance and fell partially on top of him, and before he could right himself and pull away, one of Harry’s arms had come up and wrapped around his shoulders, pinning him there. Rather startled himself, Draco whispered, “Oi, Harry, make up your sodding mind.”

Instead of making up his mind, Harry licked his lips, and Draco was lost. With a helpless sort of nervous worry in his eyes, his eyes were drawn to Harry’s mouth, mere inches from his own, and he closed the small distance to kiss him. Harry sensed it, opening his mouth eagerly, a strange sort of shivering urgency in the way he leaned upwards, meeting Draco halfway. Their mouths crashed together, Harry’s tongue pushing almost angrily into Draco’s mouth, startling him. Panicking, Draco tried to pull away, and Harry felt his fear and the kiss changed, gentled, and it was Harry soothing Draco this time. Sucking his lower lip in an apologetic way, Harry stroked Draco’s cheek carefully, calming him, and Draco wondered wryly when it had changed and become Harry worrying about pushing Draco too far.

The nervous butterflies calmed at the sweetness of Harry’s mouth below his, and Draco relaxed, flicking his tongue against Harry’s, drawing it back inside his mouth. He felt Harry smile against his lips and couldn’t help but smile back.

Draco wasn’t sure what he was doing or what it would lead to, all he knew was that this was what Harry wanted, this would somehow make things easier for Harry, and that was all that mattered. If Harry wanted, Draco would have walked to the moon and back, and this seemed infinitely simpler, easier, and much safer. This was just Harry. Kissing Harry. It should have scared him, but it didn’t, it only made him terribly nervous and excited and shaky and… He smiled again, because Harry hadn’t yet mastered the art of breathing through his nose, and he’d pulled away, sucking in a ragged breath, turning his face to the side and panting.

He didn’t want to stop kissing him, so Draco kissed the corner of Harry’s lips while the other boy tried to catch his breath, and then slid lower, to the line of his jaw, tracing that up to his ear. A strangled, breathless whimper made him smirk as he bit Harry’s earlobe gently and sucked it a little, before nuzzling the skin behind Harry’s ear and kissing it lightly.

“C’mon now,” he whispered, smiling. “It’s not so hard, surely you remember how to breathe, Harry.”

“It’s not…” Harry gasped. “That I forget…how to… how to breathe… it’s just that you’re not…giving me time to catch my breath!”

Deciding that if he had enough breath to say all of that, he must have caught it after all, and Draco tilted Harry’s face back up and kissed him again, shifting instinctively, until he was kneeling over Harry, both hands on his chin, framing his face and keeping it still. Only after he had reassured himself that Harry wouldn’t twist away again, Draco let his hands slip lower, down over Harry’s shoulders, his arms, and finally to his hands, pinning them to the grass and pressing his on top. Palm to palm, Harry automatically curled his fingers around Draco’s hands, even as he opened his mouth with a tiny whimper that sounded rather like a purr, letting Draco’s tongue slip inside.

That sound sent something wild and hot spiraling low in Draco’s stomach and it was rather like a strong shot of alcohol that went straight to his brain. Reacting to that, and the heat of Harry’s mouth, Draco let himself stretch out on top of the other boy, pinning him almost in the exact way he had on the Quidditch pitch the day he’d fallen from his broom: chest, hips, and thighs.

Harry panicked, tearing his mouth away and turning his head to the side, jerking his hands away and pushing against Draco’s chest.

Only after Draco pulled away a bit, bracing himself on his elbows and lifting himself up off of him a little, did Harry turn his face back, eyes looking wide, startled, and very dark. Resting his forehead against Harry’s, Draco started stroking his face, smoothing his hair. “Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright, I won’t, I promise,” he whispered incoherently.

“You won’t what?” Harry asked shakily.

Draco swallowed, all of the butterflies in his stomach coming back full force as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried frantically to calm down and _think_, figure out what he was doing…stop…stop _scaring_ Harry… stop scaring _himself_. “I just… won’t,” he said finally, still breathing heavily.

There was a breathless moment, one of those endless moments, in which Harry’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully and Draco watched the shadows his eyelashes made on his pale skin, and then Harry bit his lower lip. For a long time, Draco just stared into his eyes and wondered at the strange emotions he saw flickering there, and then Harry tensed, muscles shifting beneath Draco so suddenly that he yelped when he was flipped onto his back and Harry was almost shyly looking down at him.

“But what if I want you to?” he whispered, licking his lower lip uncertainly.

“…Oh,” Draco breathed, not sure if he was ready for whatever Harry was suggesting but knowing that there was no way in hell he was going to say no. No way in hell he was going to let Harry back away, put more distance between them, because even Harry lying on top of him was not close enough. It wasn’t… wasn’t _skin_ the way it had been in the lake.

Harry let out a shaky breath slowly and Draco reached up, pulling his glasses off and dropping them to the grass. A slow smile spread across Harry’s lips and he ducked his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. Reaching up, Draco brushed it aside, fingertips grazing Harry’s forehead, and their eyes met and held for a long moment.

It was different, Draco decided rather incoherently. Harry’s eyes were different than he’d ever seen them, they looked…looked like glowing pools. Bright and deep and like Draco could fall into them forever. He wondered if it was because they’d been kissing, and wondered if his eyes looked the same, only silver.

Harry shifted and Draco’s entire body echoed with the strange shock of that, as if lightning had suddenly shot through his veins. “Umm,” he gasped, eyes going wide.

Instantly looking worried, Harry whispered, “What? Did I hurt you?”

“Umm,” Draco said again, closing his eyes and, in an attempt to demonstrate what had caused that reaction, quite sure he would never be able to find the words for it, he lifted his hips a bit; Harry’s knee had fallen between his legs, his own hips grinding down a bit, and he appeared quite unaware of it. Until, of course, it was Draco who was shifting against _him_, and then Harry’s own eyes widened and his body jolted a bit. He swallowed heavily.

“Oh. Umm.” Licking his lips, Harry closed his eyes and Draco hesitantly lifted his hands to Harry’s shoulders, sure the other boy was going to panic and roll away and wanting, somehow, to convince him to stay. He needn’t have bothered. Even as he was wistfully preparing for the suddenly flash of cold he knew would hit him after Harry pulled away, the other boy was gingerly yet deliberately grinding his hips down into Draco’s, his eyes fixed on Draco’s face, as though waiting for a reaction.

“God,” Draco breathed, the sudden rush of heat through his entire body making it hard to think.

Harry smirked a little and kissed him hard, the force of it nearly bruising Draco’s mouth, but he didn’t care. It was wild and strange and he’d never done anything remotely like this, not with Lisa or anyone. Even if he had, he doubted that it would have made him ache as badly as this did, with the strange mix of aggression and hesitation in every move Harry made. As if he wanted to devour Draco but first shyly asked permission.

Shivering as Harry slid lower, kissing his neck, Draco closed his eyes, licking his lips nervously and wondering when the world went mad and how he ended up on his back in a grassy field with Harry on top of him, kissing him, sucking and biting his neck, making him forget…forget all the reasons why he shouldn’t be… oh god, making him…ohhh… “Harry,” he stammered, because Harry’s hand had slipped lower, down over Draco’s stomach, brushing against his… against his… _oh god_.

Draco sat up so suddenly that Harry fell to the ground beside him with a muffled grunt. “Oh god, oh god,” he was chanting, feeling suddenly ill. “I didn’t mean to, Harry, I swear, I…” It wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal, this was _worse_ than that dream he’d had, when he woke up and he was hard, because this was real and Harry was there and Harry _knew_ and Draco suddenly wanted the ground to open up and swallow him and nothing could be as embarrassing as Harry Potter knowing that Draco Malfoy had gotten _like that_ because Draco was quite sure it was a rule somewhere in the Family Code that Malfoys Do Not Get Turned On By Other Boys. Especially in fields. Outside. Like animals. Peasants. In the grass. _Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh —_

“Did I… did I do something wrong?” Harry asked in a tiny voice, and Draco blinked, glancing down at where Harry was sprawled on the ground.

“W-what?”

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just…”

Draco bit his lip, honestly confused. Harry should be disgusted, horrified, something. Not looking like he was about to cry and oddly vulnerable without his glasses and his hair messed up that way. “No,” Draco said very quietly. “I… I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to _what_? It was me, I shouldn’t have —”

“Didn’t mean to do _that_.”

“What?” Harry blinked, looking blank.

His face was slowly turning pink, Draco could feel it, and he looked almost sheepishly at the ground, clearing his throat. There was a long silence, and then Harry made a surprised sound in the back of his throat and then said, “Oh.”

Draco looked up at him and winced at the crazy, lopsided grin on Harry’s face. “What?” he asked, stung.

“Draco, you’re so _dense_ sometimes!” Harry cried, laughing.

“What?” he asked again, sulkily.

Harry got to his knees and touched Draco’s cheek, saying quietly, “That’s why you freaked out? It wasn’t that you didn’t want me to touch you?”

Swallowing shakily, Draco nodded, and Harry slipped his hand back so that his fingers were buried in Draco’s hair. “You promise?”

He nodded again, closing his eyes.

“And you don’t think you do the same to me?”

His eyes flew open and he bit his lip, glancing at Harry uncertainly. “What?”

Rolling his eyes, Harry grabbed Draco’s hand and then, when he noticed, much to Draco’s disgust, that it was shaking, he kissed the knuckles lightly and then slid it down to the front of his trousers.

“…Oh,” Draco breathed, startled. He hadn’t even realized…

“Can I… can I kiss you again, then?” Harry asked, suddenly shy again.

“Umm,” Draco replied, licking his lips, which apparently, Harry took as permission.

It was strange, Draco decided musingly, as he kissed Harry back and let the other boy nudge him so that he was lying on his back in the grass again, Harry smiling brightly and stretching out on top of him again. _He_ was the only one with any sort of experience at all, and Harry was practically leading him through this.

Though he was being polite about it.

“Can I… can I… umm,” he whispered against Draco’s lips, his hand hovering on Draco’s stomach uncertainly.

Nervously, Draco swallowed and nodded, and Harry grinned at him and kissed him again. “Relax,” he teased, biting Draco’s lower lip.

_I’ve created some sort of monster_, Draco decided, with no small amount of thrill at the prospect. A monster, maybe, but _his_ monster, who was currently—oh god, undoing his trousers and… Oh.

“Mmm,” Draco whimpered, and Harry kissed him again, as if trying to distract him from the way his hand was moving over him lightly, sort of a strange, erotic exploration that was making it very hard for Draco to _be_ distracted. Even by Harry’s tongue in his mouth, which he had thought, only moments before, would be the most distracting thing in the world.

And then Harry’s hand wrapped around him and Draco’s list of The Most Distracting Thing In The World was revised again.

Harry’s voice was shaky. “Is that… is that okay?”

“You wanna, just… ummm…” Draco’s hand wrapped around Harry’s and he grinned a bit and rolled his eyes, adjusting his hand a little. It was trembling badly, and Draco was relieved that Harry was at least a little nervous.

“L-like that?”

“Ummh….”

He laughed. “Right. I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Haven’t you ever —”

“I’ve never —”

They had spoken at the same time, Draco’s voice rather hoarse and Harry’s breathless, and Draco opened his eyes, staring up at Harry in surprise. “Never?”

“Umm. Is it alright? I’m not… I…”

“Shut up,” Draco growled, rolling his eyes. “It’s… god. Umm. I mean.” He rolled his eyes again and gave up trying to form a coherent sentence and instead pulled Harry down on top of him and kissed him hard.

“Oh,” Harry mumbled, kissing him back, distracted so that his hand slowly stopped moving as he lost himself in the kiss.

But Draco suddenly didn’t care, because for all of Harry’s inexperience with anything of this nature, he was having trouble breathing, thinking, doing anything except whimpering and trying not to yelp anything too obscene.

He’d never thought it could feel like that…

Then again, he’d never imagined it would be Harry’s hand doing it, and that somehow made it better, though how it could get better, Draco didn’t know.

Come to think of it, he’d never imagined a lot of the things that had happened lately, with Harry…

A sudden thought made Draco’s entire body run cold. “Harry?” he whispered.

Harry must have seen the sudden worry in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“You know how you randomly started skipping class?”

“Yeah…”

“And going to Hogsmeade in the middle of the night?”

“Uh huh…”

“And just generally being a rebellious little brat?”

“…Umm. What’s your point, Malfoy?”

“This… this isn’t more of the same, is it?”

Harry stiffened, eyes growing wary, hand falling away. “What?”

“I mean…” He was having trouble forming a coherent sentence. “I mean that this isn’t something _wrong_ that you’re doing, just because you shouldn’t.”

There was a long moment in which Harry stared at him, absolutely incredulous and Draco had the sinking feeling that perhaps he shouldn’t have said that. Harry sat up and backed away — more like, stumbled away, really. “Is that what you think this is?” he hissed.

Definitely shouldn’t have said that. “I only meant that —”

“That what?” His voice was scathing now, furious, and Draco winced. “That I decided, ‘Hey! You know what would _really_ piss people off? If I tried jerking Draco Malfoy off in a field somewhere!’”

“Harry, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Then how the hell did you mean it?”

“I was just worried, that’s all.” Even as he spoke, Draco was doing up his trousers, picking grass out of his hair, looking anywhere and everywhere except at Harry.

“_Worried_? Why the hell would you be _worried_?” Harry sneered, and Draco lost his temper.

He was on his feet before he realized it, and shouting. “Shut _up_, Harry, just shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about! You think this entire thing is easy for me, or for your godfather, or even Dumbledore? What about your friends? You think this is easy for _us_? And yet you’re going around acting like the whole world has fucked you over and it’s like you’re out for _revenge_ or something, and you’ve been acting like a self-involved prat with _everyone_, but I’m not letting you do that to me, alright? Just grow _up_ already!”

He wasn’t thinking straight, wasn’t really aware of anything except this terrible pain and fury that almost seemed to be ripping him up inside, and when Harry’s fist swung at his face, he was completely unprepared.

It slammed into his jaw and his head snapped back, gray spots dancing in front of his eyes, blood from his split lip filling his mouth. “I shouldn’t have expected you to understand,” Harry spat in a low voice, cradling his aching fist, while Draco stared at him incredulously. “I must have forgotten, for a while there, who exactly it was I was speaking to.”

And then he grabbed his broomstick and launched into the air and was gone.

His lower lip was trembling a bit and Draco’s eyes were very wide. He glanced around, as if to make sure he was really alone, and then, blood dripping from his chin, he sank weakly to his knees, and cried.

***

"I think I've done something really stupid."

Sirius looked stunned and then, slowly, relieved. Harry felt a vague stirring of guilt at that. "Harry," he said. "I wasn't expecting you. Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I should." He slipped into the room and collapsed in the armchair he always sat on during his sessions with Sirius, and sighed. "I just… I needed to talk to someone."

The blind fury had sustained him until he'd walked into Hogwarts alone and realized that he had just left Draco alone in the forest, bleeding, and then Harry had panicked. He needed to talk to someone about… about Draco. Someone who wouldn't think ‘Oh god, but it's _Draco Malfoy_'. And, since someone like that wasn't readily available, he had gone to Sirius, who at least, hopefully, would listen, and not dash off to beat up Draco or something.

Sirius looked uncertain, the need to be there for Harry warring with what he figured Responsible Parenting was. He wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to do; Sirius never was when it came to Harry. "Right," Sirius said finally, setting his book aside. "Are you alright?"

He'd be allowed to stay then. Harry sighed in relief and then said, "No. Uhh, right now? No. I think I've done something stupid."

"I'm sure it's not that bad, Harry. I did lots of stupid things when I was your age. What happened? If it's skipping class you're worried about, I'll tell Dumbledore you were with me and you won't —"

"Draco kissed me last night in the lake and then I woke up in his bed and panicked and ran away but he came after me and we were in this field and I kissed him and we umm did umm we umm I… then he said something and I got mad and hit him and made him bleed and just left him there." He sucked in a deep breath, having blurted all that out as quickly as he could without pausing to breathe.

Sirius blinked slowly. "Draco… Malfoy _kissed_ you?"

His eyes closed and Harry took a deep breath. _Please let him have heard more than the first three words I said,_ he prayed. He didn't know if he had the courage to repeat it.

Sirius must have understood this, because he said quickly, "Umm, well. Alright. Alright, that's not so bad. Was he… was he drunk?"

"No."

"Were you drunk?"

"No." Softer now.

"…Did you…kiss him back?"

"Yes." Softer still.

"…I see." There was a thoughtful pause and Harry just knew that Sirius was carefully considering how to proceed. He supposed it wasn't fair of him, being so stubborn these last few weeks and then now just dropping this huge mess at his feet. That just reminded him of everything that Draco had said, and he swallowed carefully to hold back a low whimper. "Alight," Sirius said carefully. "What did… what did he say to you? Did he say something hurtful?"

"He said… he said that I was only doing it because I was angry and wanted to add it to my list of things I'd done that I wasn't supposed to. He… he said that…" His voice got quiet. "That maybe I could be a selfish prat to everyone else but not to him. Then I hit him and he was bleeding and I said that… umm, I should have known better than to expect him to understand, I had forgotten who I was talking to."

Sirius winced and Harry sniffled. "Then you left?"

"Uh huh."

"Do you know if he came back yet?"

"I don't know."

There was silence for a long time, another silence in which Harry waited patiently for the fatherly advice he wasn't sure Sirius was capable of giving, and Sirius cautiously weighed each of his words. Harry wondered, with a morbid sort of humour, if Sirius wished Harry had come here to talk about death and dying rather than his love life.

Well, sort of love life. More like hormone life. Hormone? More than that. More like… like…

He scowled and looked away. Whatever it was, Sirius probably didn't want to hear about it. "I should go," he said, standing up quickly.

"Harry, wait!"

"What?"

Their eyes met, and Sirius bit his lip. An endless moment, and then he tossed Harry a small, almost devious grin. "Ya want me to rough him up a bit for breaking your heart?"

Another endless second, Harry's mouth hanging open, his eyes wide. "_Excuse me?_"

Sirius, still grinning a bit, was shaking his head, snickering. "Sit down, Harry, honestly. You came here to talk, let's talk."

"About what?"

"You came to talk about Malfoy. So tell me about him."

Shifting awkwardly, Harry mumbled, "What do you want to know?" He fell heavily into his chair.

"Well, for starters, allow me to go parental on you for a moment. You woke up _in his bed_?"

"Well, yeah. Umm. But we didn't. Not until in the… well I guess… since you're being parental… I shouldn't tell you…" He frowned.

"Right. Well. Alright. Forget that parental shit. I suck at it, honestly."

Feeling rather relieved, Harry relaxed. "Right." Then, after a pause, Harry said, "He didn't… he didn't break my heart."

"Did you break his?"

Another long silence, and then, in a tiny voice, Harry whispered, "I think so." His voice cracked and he sniffled, turning away. "I _hit_ him!"

"I'm sure he's alright," Sirius said gently.

"You don't understand! He's… He's… We're friends!"

"Friends who spend the night —" he cut himself off at Harry's glare, and said quickly, "Right, right. Friends."

"I just… I can't believe that he would say that I was just with him because I wasn't supposed to be."

"Well, why are you with him? I mean, no offence, Harry, but it is a rather big coincidence that it's only after… after Dumbledore told you everything, that you and Malfoy got so close…"

Harry swallowed hard and then said quietly, "Maybe it _is_ just another consequence of finding out all of this. Maybe. But then… but then why is it automatically assumed that any consequence of this has to be _bad_?"

Sirius looked surprised at that. "I guess… I guess not."

"And being with Draco _isn't_ a bad thing. Maybe it's technically supposed to not happen, but that's not why it did. It happened because I needed it to. I mean, if it hadn't, I think I'd have… have gone mad."

"Then go and find him, Harry. Tell him all of that. If he can help you when no one else can right now, don't let him go."

"You helped," Harry said quietly. "You did, Sirius."

Sirius shrugged a bit, but he was smiling a little, his eyes sad. "We're all trying to help."

Uncomfortable, Harry nodded and got out of his chair. "I've got to go find Draco."

"Yeah. Come back soon, alright?"

"Maybe. I mean, yeah." He nodded and slipped out of the room.

***

Draco was in the library, asleep on an opened book. For a moment, Harry was surprised, and then he remembered that Draco hadn't slept at all the night before. Still, he was a little hurt that while he was spilling his heart to Sirius, Draco had come here to the library to study. Harry's bag, which he'd left in the field, was sitting on the floor by Draco's chair.

He slipped into the chair across from Draco and studied him. He looked younger when he slept, younger and more vulnerable. His lip was still cut, crusted with blood, and Harry wondered why he hadn't charmed it better. Then he touched the scars on his arm and wondered if maybe Draco hadn't wanted to forget the same way Harry didn't, when he let his arm bleed.

And then he noticed the book Draco was sleeping on. Wizarding Rites of Passage. There, partially covered by Draco's hand, was a drawing of a flat-bottomed boat, flames licking up the sides of it.

"Oh," Harry whispered. Not studying, then.

He brushed the hair off Draco's forehead and sighed. "Draco? Draco, wake up, we have to talk."

Moaning a bit, Draco flinched away from his hand, stubbornly refusing to wake up. Guilt made Harry's lower lip start trembling a bit. After all, this was his fault. Draco being so exhausted, Draco's lip being cut, the bruises forming around the swollen lip…

"Right… Alright. It's alright. But you're not sleeping here." He cast a lightening charm and carefully lifted Draco out of the chair, one arm bracing the other boy's back, the other under his knees.

Draco's head fell against Harry's shoulder, and his eyes fluttered open and looking at Harry sleepily. "What… what are you doing?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

"Shh. Go back to sleep."

Smiling a bit, Draco made an agreeable noise and snuggled his face into the side of Harry's neck, closing his eyes again.

No one saw them as Harry carried Draco back to Slytherin House. He remembered the password from that morning and moments later, was carefully setting Draco down in his bed, picking the sheet up off the floor and smoothing it over him. He studied Draco for a long moment and then kissed his cheek and left quietly.

***

Draco woke suddenly, eyes flying open and breath catching in his throat. For a long moment, he didn't remember where he was or what had happened or anything. The familiar shapes of his room calmed him, however, and he sat up, touching his aching mouth and wincing.

It was near dusk now, he could tell by the way the shadows fell across the floor. Vague memories of Harry carrying him to bed were unfolding in his mind and he frowned. "Harry?" he whispered, but Harry wasn't there. "Oh, I swear, if you've run off again…"

He got out of bed and left the room, not caring that his hair was standing up wildly or that he still had lines on his face from his pillow. The common room was full of people who gawked when he walked through, but no one spoke. He didn't care, really, he had nothing to say to them.

He found Harry at the lake, sitting at the end of the pier and smoking one of the Marlboro Lights from the night they'd gone to Hogsmeade.

For a long moment, Draco didn't say anything, just watched Harry suck on the cigarette and wince at the taste, before letting the smoke out and grimacing.

"Hey," he called quietly, and Harry jumped a bit, glancing over his shoulder.

"I didn't see you there," he said nervously.

"I know." Draco came and sat beside him on the pier, and Harry shifted over a bit so there was room.

It was quiet for a while, and then Harry said in a muffled voice, "I shouldn't have—"

"It's alright."

Silence again. "Does it hurt?"

"My lip?"

"Yeah."

"Not as bad as when you cracked my head on the floor."

Harry smiled at him weakly. "Do you want me to charm it better for you?"

Shifting his eyes away awkwardly, Draco swallowed. "If you want to."

He was surprised when Harry's fingertips touched his jaw and tilted his face towards him. Then, gently tracing the cut and the bruises, Harry's eyes narrowed and he bit his lip. "I'm sorry," he whispered, eyes flickering up to Draco's and then away.

"Forget it," Draco said softly. "Harry…"

"What?"

"I was just scared. I shouldn't have said that."

"Scared? You're not scared of anything," Harry said, lips twisting in a sad smile.

"I was scared of that."

"Of what?"

"Of… this. You. And that you might not… that it was all just a reaction to everything. That I was falling for you and you were just doing it because you were pissed off."

Harry blinked, startled. "Falling for me?"

"Oh come _on_, Harry!" Draco cried, exasperated. "And you said _I_ could be dense sometimes!"

Turning to face him, Harry pulled his knees up to his chest and folded his arms on top of them, resting his chin there and licking his lips nervously. "Falling for me?" he said again, softly now.

Draco glanced away. "It doesn't matter."

"Why?"

"Because I had forgotten, for a while."

"Forgotten what?"

Draco's throat was tight suddenly and he said, "Forgotten who I was. Like you said. You forgot who I was and I forgot who you were and all the reasons why this was just pretend."

He felt the shock go through Harry at that and winced. "It's not…not real?"

"You said, Harry!" And Draco's voice cracked. "You said that you had forgotten who I was."

"I didn't… I didn't mean it. Draco, I didn't mean that. I was just… so angry." Harry reached out and touched Draco's arm.

"I just… just wanted you to tell me that it wasn't like that. That I wasn't just some rebellion of yours because you were angry at everyone."

"I don't understand how you could think that," Harry whispered.

"I don't understand how you can't just deny it."

"It's not true."

"It isn't?"

"I swear, Draco. Maybe none of this would have happened if Dumbledore hadn't told me about the spell wearing off and all that, but that doesn't mean that it's _a game_. That it's just me being angry. Because it isn't. It's…something else."

"What is it, then?"

"It's… You're right that it shouldn't have happened. A few months ago I never would have dreamed it, or any of this. But it did happen and I know why it did. It didn't happen because I wanted to hurt people and it didn't happen because I was angry. It happened because I wanted it to and I needed it to and because I was going to fall apart if it didn't. I mean, think about it. When all those weird things were happening, you kept showing up and making sure I wasn't hurt, wasn't killed. Whenever I needed you, you were there. And I needed this. I think… I think it's magic."

"Magic?" Draco whispered, smiling a little wistfully. "What sort of magic?"

"Maybe it's karma. The world feels bad for fucking me over this way and sent you to make it… make it a little more even."

Draco swallowed shakily and closed his eyes. "Harry," he whimpered, his voice heavy with panic. "You're _not going to die_."

There was a long pause and then Harry's arms were around him. "Shh, it's alright, of course I'm not," Harry whispered, his lips brushing Draco's ear. "I promise."

Lies, hollow lies, but Draco let himself believe them. "Maybe it didn't happen to save you, Harry, maybe all this happened to save me."

"What do you need saving from?" Harry asked gently, rolling his eyes and pulling away.

Draco's eyes opened and slid away skittishly. "Nothing," he said huskily.

Harry had his wand out now, and he cast a healing charm on Draco's lip. After he'd done that, he touched it again, inspecting it carefully to make sure it was really healed. Then, Harry said quietly, "Your hair's a mess, Draco."

"I need a cigarette," Draco replied, as Harry ran his fingers through Draco's hair and tidied it.

Laughing softly, Harry passed him one and lit it, then lighting another for himself. They smoked together for a while, and then Draco said musingly, "This is the nastiest habit you have, Potter."

"Well, it's not quite habit yet," Harry replied, grimacing and taking another drag. "But I'm working on it."

Draco grinned at him and Harry grinned back and everything was right again. The bruises had faded, they'd forgiven and forgotten and together, they watched the sun set over the lake in companionable silence.

***

The next week passed in a blur. Between writing exams, serving their last detentions, and researching anything that could help Harry in the library, there was hardly time for anything else besides sleeping and eating. The term was ending and the days were long and hot, and a frantic sort of nervous energy grew inside Harry. Days slipped by, faster and faster, and the only time anything slowed down was when Draco was there, calming him, keeping him sane. It was easy to believe that nothing in the world could touch him with so adamant a protector as Draco was turning out to be.

They'd had no time to relax or talk in that last week, so, on their last day before boarding the train home, when Draco slipped a note onto Harry's desk as he left the exam room, Harry nearly cried in relief. He had worried that he'd have to leave tomorrow without getting to say goodbye, because they'd been so busy and all.

‘Meet me at the lake', was all it said, but it was enough. Harry hurried through the last half of his exam and then out to the lake. Draco was waiting, sitting on the edge of the pier.

"We've got lots of Dark Arts books at home," he said abruptly, as soon as he heard Harry step onto the wooden pier. "I'll check them when I get there for anything that'll help."

"Dark spells?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"Dumbledore won't even check them, so I will. Maybe there will be something…"

"Alright."

Draco grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him down, so they were sitting side by side. "I'm going to come for you, Harry," he said.

"What?"

"I'll go home and check the books and then I'll come and find you."

Harry felt a smile flicker over his lips. "You will?"

"What, you thought I'd _leave_ you there? At your uncle's?"

"I wasn't sure," Harry whispered, but it was a lie. He'd been having nightmares all week of his uncle finding his body and laughingly putting it on display in a monument listing all his heroic acts.

Draco looped his arm around Harry's neck and jerked him closer, kissing him hard. "Don't even think it," he whispered. "I'll be there. In a week, I'll be there."

"You promise?"

Draco just kissed him again, gently this time. "Don't worry," he said.

There was a strange, calm sort of acceptance in Harry's manner now. He couldn't explain it and didn't think he wanted to. What was happening couldn't be helped, or if it could, it was being helped as much as possible, and out of his hands.

That didn't mean he wasn't scared. He was buzzing with terror, nervous fear.

The calm, he supposed, came from being with Draco. Sort of like opposite ends of a magnet, since Draco was so frantic and fighting against everything, Harry felt he had to be calm, soothing, or else they'd both lose their minds.

So now, sitting on the pier, he gave Draco a soft smile, and said, "How can I worry? Everything's going to be fine."

"It will be." It sounded almost savage.

Harry brushed his fingers fleetingly along Draco's cheekbone. "You look tired," he said gently. "Have you been sleeping?"

Draco frowned. "What?"

Harry sighed and slipped an arm around Draco's shoulders, leaning over and kissing his cheek. "I worry, is all."

"What?"

"Shh…"

"Harry."

"What?"

"What the hell is wrong with you? You're the one who's... who's... and you're worried about _me_?"

"You know you like it," Harry teased, grinning at Draco's incredulous look.

"Shouldn't you be scared?" Draco asked quietly, frowning.

"I am. I'm terrified."

"You're not acting like it."

Harry rested his head on Draco's shoulder and thought about it for a long while. "I don't want to be scared," he said finally. "I want this to just be… the last night before going home just like any other last night. Exams are finished, most people are back at the common room having a party."

"You want to go to the party?"

"I want to stay here with you and forget that all of that and all of what's coming isn't real."

"Oi, Harry, you frustrate me. You cut yourself so that you don't forget it's real, you run away because you're scared it's real, and now you want to forget it. I don't understand."

"Just…just go with it? Please, Draco? I just… if this was your last night on earth, would you want to spend it being scared?"

"I suppose not. But it's not your last night on earth."

"It's the last one that matters. It's the last one I get to spend with you."

Draco turned towards him, looking stern. "I told you, Harry. I'll be there. In a week."

"Mmhmm," Harry murmured.

"You don't believe me."

"Listen," Harry said suddenly, lifting his head. "Are you listening? Right. You know how I always say that when you kiss me, I forget everything I'm scared of?"

"…Yeah?"

Harry kissed him, a sweet, pleading sort of kiss, aching and soft and sort of bittersweet. "There," he whispered, kissing the corner of Draco's lips. "Have you forgotten everything?"

"No," Draco replied quietly, voice cracking a bit. "But I guess I could —"

He kissed him again, firmer this time, almost a punishment but more of a reward, really, a bribe. _Shut up, Draco, and I'll kiss you again…_ "Forget yet?" Harry asked, his voice husky.

"Umm," Draco replied, distracted.

Harry grinned. "C'mon, then," he said, getting to his feet and pulling Draco up.

"What? Where are we going?"

"Swimming! What else did you invite me down here for if not because you wanted to get all my clothes off and get me in the lake?"

"Harry, it's the middle of the afternoon! People will _see_!"

Harry kissed him and whispered against his lips. "Do what I say, Draco? Just for today. Forget everything and be mine, just for today."

"For forever," Draco replied instantly, and then he flushed a little. Harry grinned again and started tugging at Draco's trousers.

Laughing helplessly, Draco started taking off his clothes, and Harry giggled and it was a race to see who could get it done first. Snickering and racing towards the end of the dock, they leapt in at the same time, water swallowing them both, the sudden shock of it startling the giant squid from her nap and sending her flinching across the lake to the quieter side, quite put out at the intrusion.

Draco seemed to have taken his promise seriously, and there were only a few moments when a shadow seemed to pass over his eyes and he'd reach out and touch Harry, as if making sure he was still there.

As for Harry, a forceful sort of playfulness had fallen over him. He _refused_ to think of anything except the water and the perfect summer day and Draco. They swam together and laughed together, splashing each other and every now and again, unable to keep from kissing each other, teasing little brushes of mouths and lips and tongues that did more to add to the playfulness than to change it into anything else, anything as frightening as that day in the field.

Dusk fell, and if anyone had been outside, they were gone by now, and the grounds belonged to Harry, Draco, and the crickets and fireflies.

Hours later, they lay on their pier, dressed only in their trousers, Harry's head resting on Draco's stomach, staring thoughtfully up at the sky.

Harry cocked his head and pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes. "Draco?"

"Yeah?"

He rolled, so that he was looking up at Draco, his ear pressed to the other boy's chest. "What was the best day of your whole life?"

Draco started playing with his hair, looking thoughtful. "You want me to pick just one day?" he asked.

"Just one."

"I don't think I can pick a day that was the best of my life. I can tell you a few moments that were the happiest of my whole life, but they've all got these flip sides to them, like coins. It's like there's a balance, and the happiest moments have to be quickly followed by the saddest, to keep everything equal."

Harry considered this for a moment and then said, "Alright then. Your happiest moment."

"When I made Seeker for my team."

"And the flipside?"

"When you beat me the first time. And every time after."

Harry smirked a little and then, at Draco's glare, tried to look contrite. "Sorry."

"Tell me one of your happiest moments."

Harry bit his lip in thought. "When Sirius told me I could go live with him instead of going home with the Dursleys."

"Flipside?"

"When Wormtail escaped and Sirius had to hide again. Tell me another of yours."

"What? I already told you —"

"Tell me another," Harry pleaded, making his eyes go wide. "Please, Draco?"

"Prat," Draco said with a sigh. Then he smiled ruefully. "Cute one, at that. Fine. Another. The first time I kissed you?"

Harry smiled, a fleeting, sweet smile. "And the flipside?"

Draco cleared his throat and glanced away. Then he turned onto his side, so that Harry slipped off his chest, his head then pillowed on Draco's arm, their faces very close. "How could there be a flipside to that?"

But there was, Harry knew. Because right after that, Harry had told him that he was going to die.

Their eyes met and held for a long moment, solemnly, and Harry smiled sadly. "Thank you," he whispered, because Draco was playing along.

Draco touched his face and smiled, a soft, strange smile, the kind Harry would have thought him incapable of only weeks before. "Tell me another," Draco commanded, touching the tip of Harry's nose.

"Today?"

And Draco kissed him and neither bothered to think what the flipside of that one could possibly be.

***

His godfather looked worse than Harry had ever seen him, even newly escaped from Azkaban. He paced the room and mumbled to himself, and Harry watched, nervously concerned that Sirius was having some sort of breakdown.

Strange, Harry himself hadn't yet fallen that far.

Dumbledore was there, looking solemn, and, by Harry's count, the train would be leaving in just under an hour. He had to be on it, Draco was waiting. He had to be there. He had to ride home with Hermione and Ron. He _had_ to.

"You're not going home," Sirius said. Harry went cold with terror.

"Sirius, we decided that it would be best for both you and Harry if he returned to his aunt and uncle's," Dumbledore replied, sounding very tired.

"I don't care what's best! I'm not letting him go!"

"You didn't find anything then? Nothing to help?" Harry asked softly.

"There's still time, Harry." Dumbledore looked sternly at Sirius. "And he cannot go with you."

"Why?" Harry whispered, though he knew. If he died in the care of a man convicted of murdering a street full of people and betraying his parents, they'd think Sirius killed him.

"It's just for the best that he go home. We will know where to find him when we've got this sorted out. There is still time. We _will_ fix this." Dumbledore's eyes blazed, as if daring them to disagree.

Sirius spun towards Harry, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. "You'll wait for us there? We will come for you Harry. Promise you'll stay there, where we can find you."

"I promise," Harry said, shaken at the fever in Sirius' eyes.

"He's got to go catch the train, Sirius," Dumbledore said gently.

Harry was crushed against Sirius' chest, trembling hands running through his hair, over his back. "We will fix it, we will."

Guilt suddenly struck him, and Harry wondered nervously why he felt like he owed Sirius something more than this. Owed him tears, panic attacks, pleas. "I… I don't want to die," he said, giving Sirius the opportunity he seemed to crave.

"You aren't going to die," Sirius swore.

"Alright," Harry whispered, surprised to find real tears in his eyes.

"I love you."

Surprised again. "You do?"

"Of course I do."

"Oh. I… I love you too."

He'd never said that before. To anyone. Ever. Fifteen years old and never said ‘I love you'. Strange, very strange.

Dumbledore spoke to him, quiet promises that Harry didn't bother to listen to. He fidgeted and bounced on his toes and glanced worriedly at his watch and then he was brought down to the train.

***

Hermione swept her hair over her shoulder, glanced up, met Harry's eyes, and grinned. "Honestly," she drawled, voice heavy with restrained laughter. "You'd think he thought this train ride could last until the term starts again, the rate Ron's going."

_I wish it could._ He smiled. "Ron's always slow at chess," he said.

She snorted. "Slow at other things, as well."

Ron finally decided to acknowledge them. "I'll have you know that strategy is an important part of chess."

"Oh, is it?" Hermione snickered. She watched him as he precisely moved his bishop, and then quickly followed up with a random move of a pawn that cost him his knight. "Then why is it, Ron, dear, that I'm kicking your arse?"

"Because you're cheating!" he cried.

"Am I?" she replied, and she was smirking.

"You are. Harry, you _saw_ her!"

"I didn't see a thing," Harry replied, unable to restrain a smile.

"It doesn't matter," he said sullenly. "The trolley's coming around, we'll buy some sweets."

They did, eating them and talking for the rest of the ride. Harry was aware of a dark little voice in the back of his head whispering about how this could very likely be the last time he ever saw them, and that they didn't even realize it. He couldn't tell them, of course, they'd panic. It was better this way. They didn't have to live this last month terrified of the day Harry was going to die. That was his burden to bear. Well, his and Draco's… Which made it more bearable, of course.

The train pulled into the station and they gathered up their things. As they were about to leave the compartment, Harry cleared his throat. "Guys?" he said, and his eyes were shining with tears, his voice tight.

Ron frowned. "C'mon, Harry, you're not gonna cry, are you?" he teased. "It's only for the summer. You always get so upset when we have to go home."

"And who wouldn't, with a family like his?" Hermione scolded Ron, dropping her things and hugging Harry tightly. "Don't worry, Harry," she soothed. "We'll see you soon, it'll be fine. I'll owl you at least once a week, and send your birthday presents by owl as well."

Harry blinked. "Send them early, okay?" he said suddenly.

She frowned. "Why?"

"I don't think I'll be… be around on my actual birthday and I'd like to see them before…"

"Where are you gonna be? Don't tell me those Muggles of yours are taking you on vacation!" Ron cried. "That's brilliant, Harry!"

"Umm, yeah…" It was awkward and terribly hard, and Harry just stared at them both helplessly. He knew what he _wanted_ to say, and it would go something like, "I don't want to leave you, don't make me get off this train and walk away from you because everything's different and the whole world has changed and you guys don't even know it because I kept it from you because I was scared and I can't tell you now because I don't want _you_ to be scared… Don't let me walk away from you."

But instead, he just forced a weak smile, and whispered, "I'll miss you both so much."

"We'll be together again soon," Hermione promised.

"Yeah. Mum's still dead set on you coming and spending the last of the summer with us." Ron was making his way out of the compartment, talking over his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" Hermione whispered to Harry, scanning his face worriedly.

"Yeah," he lied. "Fine. Let's just… let's go, alright?" He suddenly needed to see Draco so badly it hurt. The platform was crazy, and he was terrified that he wouldn't be able to find him.

He hugged both Hermione and Ron, who was quite amused by it, and then promised to write often. Hermione hurried off to her parents and Ron's mother came over and hugged him, kissed his forehead and made him promise to come for the end of summer. He mumbled something inaudible and pulled away, scanning the chaotic crowd on the platform.

He said his goodbyes, made easier because he was so worried about missing Draco, and then pushed his way into the crowd. He was shorter than most of his year and those older than him, so it was hard, trying to see. Eyes welling up with panicked tears, he'd almost given up when someone grabbed his arm from behind.

"You've got an owl, yeah?" It was Draco.

Relief almost made Harry's knees give out. "Yeah," he whispered shakily, as someone knocked into him from behind and sent him stumbling against Draco.

"Owl me. Every day." Draco looked almost fierce, his eyes narrowing and glaring at whomever had dared run into Harry.

His voice was choking up, and Harry nodded. "I will."

"I'll check the libraries at home, I'll find something."

"Yeah." He wanted more of this. Wanted to curl up against Draco's chest and close his eyes and wish this all away. Instead, he caught sight of his uncle making his way through the crowd. "Oh god," he whimpered, hand twisting in Draco's. "I can't do this." He turned away, as if to run, get away. Something that would put this off a little longer.

Draco grabbed his shoulder and whispered, "I _will_ come for you, Harry. As soon as I can, a week at the most, I swear it."

Turning back slowly, eyes wide and terrified, Harry nodded slowly. "Right. Alright."

Draco studied his face worriedly for a long moment, and then mumbled, "Oh fuck this." He jerked Harry against him, ignoring all their classmates and their parents, Harry's uncle, ignoring everything, and focusing only on the fact that Harry was shaking and scared and he needed to comfort him.

He kissed him, a quick brush of lips and then another, an attempt to soothe more than anything, and Harry sobbed low in his throat and tilted his head upwards, closing his eyes. Unable to resist that, Draco kissed him deeply now, two hands cupping his face, fingers buried in his hair, his mouth pressing insistently against Harry's. Breathing heavily, Harry opened his mouth to the kiss and pressed closer, his hands slipping around Draco's waist. He whimpered as Draco's tongue slipped into his mouth, and everything fell away around them and they forgot everything, completely giving themselves up to the kiss and the underlying desperate fear beneath it.

"Apparently, Draco, becoming a delinquent wasn't the only way you've changed this year," Lucius drawled from nearby, and it was Harry who reacted to his voice by jerking away from Draco, his eyes widening.

Draco ignored his father. "I'll come for you," he whispered again, kissing the side of Harry's neck. His eyes met Lucius', and Harry whimpered a bit, pushing at Draco weakly. Draco didn't care.

Before Lucius could say another word, Harry was grabbed roughly from behind and torn away from Draco, straight against Uncle Vernon. "What's the meaning of this?" he gasped, his face already flushed to an angry red. He was holding Harry roughly by the back of his shirt, shaking him a little, and Harry only barely managed to keep his balance.

Draco looked like he wanted to throttle him, but Lucius' hand had come down hard on his shoulder, so he only stood there bristling and growling softly, his eyes on Harry's, furious.

Harry wondered idly if Lucius would speak. If he'd sneer at Harry's Muggle relative, if he'd curse him, if he'd kill Harry for daring to touch his son. Lucius flicked his cold eyes over Vernon, his lips twisting a bit in some morbid sort of amusement, but apparently Vernon was too far beneath his notice to warrant a comment. "Come along then, Draco, this will be dealt with like the rest of your transgressions," he said smoothly, turning away.

Draco shot one look at his father and then stepped towards Harry, his eyes flicking up to Vernon coldly. Vernon fell back, startled and probably afraid he was about to be cursed, and Draco's lips tilted in the same way his father's had. Morbid amusement.

Then, he gently touched Harry's chin and said quietly, "I'll be there. I promise." He kissed Harry softly and then turned to follow his father.

Harry's lower lip was trembling and he sniffled, turning to his uncle. "If you're going to shout at me," he said, swallowing heavily, "can you do it in the car? It's already so loud here."

Vernon looked severely traumatized. Perhaps, Harry thought quietly, he realized how close he'd come to being killed. Instead of shouting, he just nodded jerkily, and turned to lead the way.

He didn't speak the whole way home, and Harry was glad. He knew that he wouldn't escape punishment for that, for proving that he was weird in more ways than strictly magical ones. His uncle had raged multiple times against the very same sort of thing that Harry had just let himself be caught engaging in. But he couldn't find the strength to care.

Aunt Petunia's lips tightened sourly when he walked into the house, but she didn't say a word. Not until Uncle Vernon, who had been forcibly forgetting all the frightening things he'd seen at the platform (namely two pairs of eyes belonging to what he was _sure_ had to be vampires or something unnatural), said, "Looks like the boy's been busy at school, Petunia."

"Oh?" she replied, running her eyes over him as though looking for dirt of some kind, like whatever Uncle Vernon was referring to would have left a mark.

It had, Harry decided. Just not the kind that she could ever see.

"Got himself a _boyfriend_."

"A _what_?"

Uncle Vernon was smirking. Dudley had overheard from the next room, and he was laughing, laughing as if he'd just heard the funniest thing of the year. "Can I go to my room now?" Harry asked dully, staring at the floor.

He didn't wait for an answer, only turned and made his way up the stairs. Aunt Petunia was still asking shrill questions, his uncle was snidely telling her everything he'd seen, and Dudley was still laughing, but Harry didn't care.

He didn't have the energy to care.

The first week passed at a crawl for Harry, who stayed in his room and forgot to eat most of the time. He became quite good and ignoring voices around him, because the only voices he heard were his aunt's as she swore that she would not have 双ne of them' (one of whom, he did not ask, because with Aunt Petunia, it hardly mattered), living in her home, his uncle, who delighted in telling a lewd and filthy version of what he'd seen on the platform (neglecting to mention his terror at the sight of Lucius Malfoy), and Dudley, who enjoyed telling anyone who would listen about his cousin, who was 倉ueer'.

Really, it was better to be deaf than waste his time with sounds like those.

So he stayed in his room and he wrote letters, to Hermione, Ron, Sirius, and Draco, assuring them that everything was right as rain. There were too many letters for Hedwig to handle, so he sent her with Draco's and stored the other ones in his desk, waiting for her to return. He sent Sirius' letters with the owl his letters came with, and Hermione and Ron's he sent with Pig, who came in the middle of the week with a letter from Ron.

And other than that, he stared out the window and waited for the week to be over and for Draco to come for him.

The week came and went without even a letter, and the days after that passed more slowly.

It was strange, he decided. He'd wanted time to slow down before, when he was with Draco, so that it could last forever. It hadn't obliged and now, when he wanted more than anything to see Draco again, it wouldn't speed up. Days crawled by slower than any he could remember, but still, they passed, until he gave up watching out the window and fell back into his bed and cried and cried because Draco had forgotten. Draco wasn't coming at all. He hadn't even replied to a single one of Harry's letters.

Draco wasn't coming.

***

A Malfoy Does Not Kiss Other Boys In Public. It repeated in his memory, again and again, until, for the rest of his life, even when Draco was weak and tired and sore all over, he would still be able to mumble those words, over and over again.

His father had never laid a hand on him until he had gotten him home from London that day, after watching him kiss Harry. He had never beaten him nor even touched him affectionately. Had never slapped him or held him, certainly had never hurt him or tidied his hair. But that summer, everything was to change for Draco, and he found it only fitting that the change started at home.

His mother cried, cried harder than Draco could ever remember her having cried before. Because who _knew_ how many friends of theirs had been on that platform that day, had watched Draco shove his tongue into the mouth of the Boy Who Lived? They'd never be invited out to polite society again! No one would ever want to be seen with them because their son had Kissed Another Boy In Public.

The 'in public' part was important, Draco knew, because a Malfoy could do whatever he pleased in privacy, and he knew for a fact that his father had kissed other boys before, and probably still did today. He knew because Narcissa still fumed over it, and one night over dinner, when she'd been angry, she had come right out and said it.

Draco had only been eight, but he remembered.

In the privacy of his bedroom, Lucius had replied coldly, a Malfoy could do whatever he liked.

It wasn't his bedroom, Narcissa had replied. It was theirs.

And that was when they got separate bedrooms.

That was the last time he'd seen his father touch _anyone_, actually. When his mother had grabbed Lucius' arm pleadingly and he had reached up, taken her hand, and dropped it.

The last time he touched anyone, that is, until he got Draco home from the train station and backhanded him across the face.

"A Malfoy Does Not Kiss Other Boys In Public," he'd said, almost politely, as Draco stared at him in shock.

He'd always feared his father, and in that moment, the fear changed to something else, something that tasted less like bile in his throat and more like ice in his body. A cold sort of hatred.

He was grounded to his room indefinitely, locked in, his wand taken away. The only sounds were his mother's weeping whenever she happened to pass by his door, and the rain on the window if ever it happened to rain.

His mother did not come to visit him, his father had claimed that he was to use the time in his room to think things over, and the house elves were cautioned not to speak to him when they brought his food.

In truth, it was not the worst of punishments. It was the slap that stung, even after the swelling on his lip faded.

He could see the formal gardens through his window, and it only served to remind him of being locked in his room as a child. He remembered that summer, those two weeks after first year, of being locked here, and how he had panicked and paced and ranted about how unfair it was. Now, he was content to sit on his bed and stare out the window and wait.

Content, that was, until the first week slipped by and still, his father had not come to let him out.

Harry needed him, he had to get to Harry. The thought consumed him and Draco started pacing his room, screaming for his father, screaming in rage until his voice was gone, but his father never came. He tried to break through the door, but it was locked tight. He lived too high up to jump from the window.

But he had to get to Harry.

Another week went by, and then another. It was then that the house elf walked in and caught Draco just as he smashed his fist through the window.

His arm was dripping blood and Draco tried to get out the window before the elf could react. It was no use and he was jerked back into the room.

His father was summoned, and Draco laughed a little hysterically. All it took to get an audience with his father was an attempt at smashing his way through the window.

He was moved then, to a room inside the house without windows. It was a smaller room, used for guests of lesser status. The slashes on his wrist were healed.

His father left him there for three days and then came back. It was July twenty-eighth.

"Have you come to realize the error of your ways?" Lucius asked, and Draco spat on the floor at his feet.

Lucius ordered then that he be lashed with a belt and that perhaps this would teach him proper respect for his father and what it was to be a Malfoy. Draco was incredulous at this, and he laughed. Belted? A Malfoy? It had never happened before and he was sure his father wouldn't dare make him be the first Malfoy it happened to. He was wrong.

His father didn't belt him himself, of course, but had a house elf do it. The poor creature sobbed all the while, smashing the belt into Draco's naked back.

Draco… Draco didn't make a sound. He lay on his stomach on his bed and let the belt cut into the skin on his back and he did not flinch, did not cry, did nothing. He thought of Harry waiting for him, Harry kissing him, Harry smiling at him, and he smiled while the house elf belted him.

When it was over, the elf carefully set the belt down, glanced at Draco meaningfully, and walked out, leaving the door open a crack.

Freedom, then. He heard a distant howling as the house elf began slamming his leg in an oven in punishment for that.

He walked gingerly, his back torn and aching. He pondered where to go. The library? He had to check the books, there had to be something, someway to help…

But Harry was waiting.

_Harry, Harry, oh god, what should I do?_

He went instead to Lucius' study and tore the top drawer open. There a ring there, a ring he recognized. It was a portkey that would bring him anywhere he wanted to go, his father used it whenever he and Draco had to go anywhere together. He found his wand there as well and took that too, then going to his bedroom and changing into something clean. He took the back servant steps down to the kitchen and slipping out the back door. After all, his father would never think to search for him in the servant's domain. He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys neither sneaked out through the servant's entrance, nor Kissed Another Boy In Public.

He walked a while, until he was out of sight of the house, and then Draco dug through his pocket, pulling out the ring.

He slipped it on his finger and disappeared a moment later.

***

"_My name is Harry Potter and I live on Privet Drive. I am fifteen years old and in three days I'll be sixteen. My mother and father died when I was just a baby and I have a scar to show for it. Oh, and one on my forehead too, that one you could see if you looked at me. The other is not so visible and only I and a few others know it is there._

_Should I be frightened? Should I be scared? Would Draco be scared? He's not afraid of anything._

_My name is Harry Potter, and I'm going to die._

_I'm going to die._

_I'm going to die._

_Draco, Draco, where are you?_"

The quill was shaking and he set it down with utmost precision, tilted exactly diagonally on the piece of lined notebook paper he'd been writing on.

Harry didn't know if wizards believed in God. Did they pray? It had never been covered in any of his classes, nor had Ron ever mentioned it. Did Harry believe in God? At times like this, it was easy to answer no, a bit easier to answer, "No, but I might. I might, if only He could do something to make this hurt less. Then I'll believe. If he proves it. If he's listening, he'll prove it."

And that's just what Harry did.

He had never prayed before, to any god. If there was a god, he reasoned, they were too busy to listen to the prayers of a little boy locked in a closet. He used to wonder, as a child, if prayers would even matter. How would they get out of his closet and find their way up to God if he didn't have a window?

But now, three days before he was due to turn sixteen, and sitting alone in a darkened bedroom, Harry closed his eyes and clasped his hands and whispered in a voice husky from disuse, "Please, God, please. I'll do anything you want me to, I'll be grateful, I won't be scared, and I'll be good. I'll stop being so angry and I'll stop fighting you and hating you for everything that's happened lately. I'll forgive my mother, I'll forgive Dumbledore, I'll do anything. Just please, please, let him come for me. Please…"

His hands were trembling, his throat was tight, and Harry listened for any sort of sign that God had heard. There was nothing. Not a whisper. The house was dead silent.

Harry hated God then more than he ever had before (for even when he wasn't sure he believed, he still felt that, if there really was a God, life was so unfair that he could not be a very _good_ sort of god). He fell back onto his bed and glared upwards, as if, were there really a God, he would feel Harry's furious stare and be cowed by it.

Perhaps He was. Or perhaps, perhaps, He'd been looking after Harry this whole time.

There came a scratching on the window.

Slowly, slowly, afraid to hope, Harry sat up and turned towards it, holding his breath. There was nothing there, but the scratching came again; something had smacked into the window. A pebble.

"Oh god," Harry breathed, whether in thanks or relief or disbelief, it didn't really matter. It all came down to the same.

He hurried to the window and wrenched it open. Draco was standing below with a handful of pebbles, tossing them at his window.

He grinned rakishly. "C'mon, Harry," he called softly. "Let me in!"

Harry nodded jerkily and dashed from the room and down the stairs. Uncle Vernon snorted in his sleep but Harry didn't care. Draco was there. Draco hadn't forgotten him.

He slipped out the backdoor and for a long moment, stood on the step staring at Draco in the moonlight, as if making sure he was really there, that it wasn't a dream.

It wasn't.

If there had been a swelling of music and bird song, if dawn had suddenly burst upon them then, Harry would not have been at all surprised. That was how it felt inside then, and any and all doubt in the existence of God and angels disappeared in an instant because how could there not be any such things as angels when Draco was standing right there, grinning at him?

"Oh god," Harry said again, and then he was off the steps and tackling Draco, leaping into his arms. Draco staggered, surprised, and he caught Harry against his chest, unbalanced. They spun a bit, and tumbled to the ground, Harry landing on the bottom with a grunt.

Draco was laughing before Harry even caught his breath. "Missed me, did you?" he asked warmly.

"Missed you?" Harry cried, because 'missed' seemed too flat a word to describe what he had felt when Draco hadn't written, hadn't shown up.

And then he was crying, unable to help it. Happy tears, or at least, bittersweet ones.

"Oh, hush," Draco said softly, smiling in an incredibly tender way and rubbing his cheek against Harry's, closing his eyes.

"I thought you weren't coming," Harry whispered, touching Draco's face with trembling fingers.

"I promised I'd be here."

"In a week. What happened?"

"I was just detained is all, I'm sorry."

"You're here now. Everything's alright, everything in the world is alright, you're here now." He smiled brightly, and Draco laughed softly and kissed him softer still.

"Everything in the world?" he teased a moment later, and Harry nodded emphatically.

"Everything."

Draco, smiling still, sat up and pulled Harry up with him. They sat that way in the grass for a moment, studying each other, grinning at each other, and for a minute or two, both could almost truly believe that everything was right in the world. How could it not be right? They were together, the sky was an endless expanse of stars, fireflies glittered all around, and they were together. What could ever have enough power to tear apart the skies and the perfect night that smelled of grass and forever and a bare hint of rain? What could ever be strong enough to tear _them_ apart? Nothing, because to be torn apart, you had to let go, and they both knew that they would never, never let each other go.

The moment faded and Draco took Harry's hand. It didn't matter if a moment would pass, because another always came to take its place, after all. "Where do you want to go?" he asked.

"We're going somewhere?"

"Everywhere. We're going to see the world." He smiled, that careless, reckless grin he seemed to have developed over the month they'd been apart, and Harry was lost in it.

"Anywhere?" Harry said.

"Pick somewhere."

There was a moment there when a choice rose up before Harry. He remembered Dumbledore had made him promise to stay at the Dursleys, so that he could find him if there were any developments. There had been a few reassuring owls, but nothing concrete. Still, three days… Something could be found to help in three days. Chances were slim, however. And then there was Draco, offering to show him the world. Had he checked the books at home? Did it matter?

It suddenly became clear to Harry that he would rather spend three days with Draco and die at the end of them then spend three days with the Dursleys on the off chance that he'd live.

It was a decision that his mind skittishly refused to acknowledge the consequences of.

_We're in the formal gardens. So Draco Malfoy would spend one of his last nights on earth in a formal garden?_ He smiled a bit as the words whispered through his memory. "The Malfoy Formal Gardens," he said.

Draco seemed to stiffen, his eyes sliding away skittishly. He bit his lip, and Harry reached out and touched it with a soft fingertip. "It's alright," he said uncertainly. "I didn't mean it."

"No," Draco said, shaking his head and smiling at him, his distraction gone. "I want to show you my gardens. You've never seen more beautiful gardens anywhere."

"I remember, you told me." He grinned, impishly. "I want to see the snapdragons."

Draco shot him a menacing look and took his hands. "Shut up, you," he said, his other hand reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a large, ornate ring and slipped it onto his finger, and they both disappeared, leaving Privet Drive far, far behind.

***

There was a stone wall that ran around the length of Malfoy Manor, and it was only a foot taller than Draco was. Harry glanced from it to Draco and back again and then said, "This is all the security your house has got? I expected spikes and howling dogs and massively uncomfortable security charms."

Draco smirked a bit. "Who would dare break into Malfoy Manor?"

"Someone who didn't know any better and didn't realize it was the Malfoys who lived there?"

"Precisely. And anyone so thickheaded is easy enough to deal with without the inconvenience of having to sharpen spikes, care and feed rabid dogs, or waste time with complicated security charms."

Harry had to give Draco a boost, and then watched as the other boy hauled himself up onto the wall. "Wait by the gate," he called softly. "I'll be there in a second to let you in."

The gate was a short distance away and Harry made his way over there, restraining the urge to giggle. It all seemed so silly, this subterfuge. It was Draco's house, why did Draco have to sneak into it?

But he wouldn't ask questions. Draco knew best, after all.

It was dark and quiet, and for a moment, Harry nearly panicked. Silence pressed down on him like a heavy wave and if he closed his eyes, nothing moved or breathed and it was almost like being dead.

But he wasn't, he reminded himself. And just to further press that knowledge into his mind, when Draco opened the gate, he slipped through, slammed Draco against the stone wall, and kissed him furiously.

Draco whimpered, a painful sort of whimper, the type that was strangled because he'd tried to restrain it. Harry pulled away, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"What happened to you?" he asked softly.

"Nothing," Draco lied, wincing as he gently pushed Harry back a step and carefully straightened up, so he was not touching the wall.

Harry didn't believe him, but he didn't bother to ask again. Instead, eyes daring Draco to object, he turned the other boy and lifted his shirt.

Ragged welts, some of them cut and crusted with blood, marked Draco's back. Sucking in a painful breath, Harry touched one of the wounds very gently, his other hand slipping around to rest on Draco's stomach, an attempt to soothe him.

"What's he done to you?" Harry whispered.

"It's nothing," Draco said quietly. "Harry, I swear, it's fine."

Scoffing, Harry kissed the back of his neck and then pulled out his wand, casting healing charms. "What kept you, all that time?" he asked lightly, his free hand sliding around to Draco's side and then down to his hip, holding him still. "What really kept you, Draco?"

"It was nothing," he repeated, more firmly. "Are you finished yet?"

The wounds were closed and healed, and Harry leaned forward, kissing his back between the shoulder blades, before letting his shirt fall again. "Yes."

"Good. I couldn't reach, or I would have done it myself." He smiled at Harry, and before the other boy could ask any more questions, he took his hand firmly and tugged. "Now come on, I want to show you my gardens."

He hadn't lied, Harry decided. The Malfoy gardens were more beautiful than all the Hogwarts ones. There were acres and acres of them. Ordinary ones that, though filled with recognizable things like snapdragons and orchids, were somehow made extraordinary by the sheer volume of flowers and ferns, streams, ponds, statues. Then there were the gardens filled with plants the like of which Harry had never seen before. Magical plants that shimmered, changed colour, moved, sang, smiled. It was unnerving and enchanting and beautiful.

There were no garden gnomes here, not a single one, Harry knew.

Draco guided him passed the hedge maze (he did not let Harry go in it, though, and Harry wondered if Draco was remembering the third Triwizard challenge), down all his favourite paths, and then further from the house. The further away they went, the darker it seemed to get. Then Draco led him to another stone wall that was taller than he was, and opened a wrought iron gate. Harry followed him through.

A massive tangle of vines and shrubs seemed to burst from the ground, all of them so black that they seemed to be sucking colour from the world and swallowing it. On the tips of every branch, however, a tiny shimmer of silver seemed to reflect the moonlight.

"A Night Time Garden," Draco said, voice heavy with satisfaction. "It only blooms in the night time."

It was, Harry decided wistfully, glancing around, the most delicate and beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Two more parts you have to see, my two favourites," Draco declared, grabbing Harry's arm and tugging him from the small night garden.

They went next to am empty plot of barren earth. "Lovely," Harry said sarcastically, glancing around.

"It's a winter wildflower garden," he explained, glancing sideways at Harry, as if checking that Harry remembered.

He did, of course. The garden they had dug together had been cast into a winter wildflower garden. "You don't like wildflowers," he said, smiling.

Draco just shrugged with a rather enigmatic smile of his own. "They have their charms," he replied, and then he took Harry's arm again, tugging him in another direction. Harry was content to let Draco lead him around this way, because this was Draco's world, and he wanted to see all of it.

They went next to a small orchard on the south side of the house. The trees each grew a wild assortment of different fruits and berries, each which grew naturally frosted with sugar. The effect was that they looked covered in a fine sprinkling of ice, and the starlight reflected off of the sugar and made them glitter like diamonds.

Draco surveyed the orchard thoughtfully and then chose a sugared grape tree and easily leapt into the lower branches and pulled himself up. Harry watched him climb easily, and then called uncertainly, "What are you doing?"

"Come up," Draco replied, laughing quietly. "Surely you know how to climb a tree."

"Never have before," Harry admitted, biting his lip and having no idea where to even begin.

"You've never climbed a tree?" Draco cried, as he swung back down and held his hand out. "C'mon, I'll help you. Don't let go and I won't let you fall."

He pulled Harry up into the branches and they climbed until they were surrounded by glimmering grapes, coated in a fine layer of sugar themselves, which fell from the branches every time they shook.

Draco leaned back against the trunk, balancing easily where the branch joined it, and Harry slipped onto his lap, so he was cradled against his chest. He was suddenly aware of how very late it was, and his eyes fluttered sleepily.

Draco held a sugared grape to his lips. "Eat this before you sleep," he whispered, breath brushing Harry's ear.

"Why?" he asked, voice husky with sleep.

"Because we didn't come all this way to climb my father's sugared grape tree and not eat a few," Draco admonished, pushing the grape against his mouth. Harry relented with a sleepy giggle and let his mouth open a bit. Draco pushed the grape inside.

"Shoulda climbed a cherry tree," Harry mumbled, smiling a little and resting his head on Draco's shoulder, closing his eyes. "I hate grapes."

He fell asleep then, slipping away peacefully, for the first time in nearly a month content enough to sleep undisturbed by nightmares.

***

The sun was warm and his tongue was thick with powdered sugar. For a long moment, Draco thought that he was twelve and had fallen asleep in the sugar orchard again, but he wasn't. He was fifteen, and Harry had fallen with him, which was an even sweeter way to wake up.

It happened slowly, in stages. A vague awareness of the sun on his face, the trunk against his back, the cramps there. The dew that dampened his skin and his hair, and the heavy warmth of Harry lying against him. Harry's breath against his neck. And then Draco opened his eyes and stretched as best he could without knocking Harry from the tree, and smiled sleepily at him. Harry was still asleep and didn't see it, but it didn't matter.

He leaned his head back, against the tree, and closed his eyes, determined to memorize each of the tiniest details of that morning. Not because he was worried that there wouldn't be anymore mornings like that (Harry wasn't _really_ going to die, that just wasn't possible), but because he'd never imagined anything as perfect in its simplicity as waking up holding Harry in an orchard of sugared fruit.

It couldn't last forever, though. His father could not find him here. Shaking Harry gently, he called his name and watched as the other boy woke up, the way his eyes fluttered in protest, his lips parted, a soft moan whispering from them.

"We're in a tree," Harry murmured, after his eyes opened for a moment and then slammed shut against the sunlight sprinkling through the leaves.

"We are. And covered in sugar too. C'mon, we've got to get out of here before my father finds us."

Draco had to help Harry out of the tree and then he glanced around carefully, memorizing the colours and the way the early morning sun fell over the gardens.

"Now where?" he asked. It was easier, this constant moving, constantly having something else to think about so that he didn't have to deal with thinking about everything else.

"Draco," Harry said.

He turned and looked at him. "Yeah?"

"We don't have to go anywhere. We can stay here."

"We can't."

"Why not?"

"I don't live here anymore." Then, so he wouldn't have to discuss it, he said, "And we have to go somewhere. Anywhere. Where do you want to go? I need… need to go somewhere. Get away. Someplace you've never been."

"I've never been a lot of places."

"Pick one. Or someplace you love." Urgency made him sound almost like he was begging.

Almost randomly, Harry said, "I've never swam in the ocean."

Draco was shocked. "Never?"

"No. I've been there, a few times, but never for long enough to swim."

He took his hand and they were gone a moment later.

They spent the day on a beach, walking together and talking, laughing, eating ice cream and swimming in the cold, salty water. It was easy to forget the future looming ahead of them while standing on the sand and staring out at the endless expanse of cobalt blue water, glittering in the sunlight. Easy to forget how small and powerless they were when standing next to something that large. It's strange how standing by the ocean could make you feel at once tiny and insignificant, and at the same time a part of something so huge that you honestly could believe in your own immortality.

The sun set and they still stayed by the sea, even after the other beachgoers had left. It was late when they used Draco's Portkey to go to London, eating dinner in Diagon Alley and then taking a room at the Leaky Cauldron.

Draco had never stayed in a hotel before, his family had only ever vacationed in places where they owned a house or had relatives with many guest rooms, so he spent the first few minutes inspecting it. He was in the bathroom poking at the soaps and such when Harry called softly from the main room, "Draco?"

He stiffened a bit and then swallowed hard, poking his head out of the door. After all, he knew that this couldn't last forever, this forced game of pretending everything was alright. "Yeah?"

"Did you find anything?"

"In the bathroom?"

"No." A heartbeat's pause. "In your library."

Their eyes met and held and forever seemed to pass before Draco could reply. "Yes."

"You did?"

"Oh, yes. I did, Harry." Draco was nodding emphatically. Words were forming in his mouth and spilling from his lips almost thoughtlessly, all driven by the instinctive and feverish belief that if he spoke these things out loud, that would make them true. "And I cast them all. A thousand dark spells protect you now. That's what kept me from coming for you. All the spells."

"A thousand?" Harry whispered, smiling trustingly. Fury hit Draco then, at the unfairness of this, the painfulness of it.

"And more," Draco swore, eyes narrowed. He fell onto the bed, kneeling in front of Harry and taking his face roughly into his hands, slamming his lips over the other boy's. It was a rough, angry kiss that Harry responded to gently, until all of the anger had been soothed out of Draco and he was clinging to Harry and Harry was kissing him. What had started as a punishment ended as something bittersweet and soft and Draco wondered where Harry got the nerve to think that he had to comfort Draco now. Malfoys didn't need comfort. Just as they didn't kiss other boys in public. Malfoys needed…

Hell if Draco knew what Malfoys needed.

He pulled away and rested his forehead against Harry's, who was still smiling with infinite gentleness up at him. But then, Harry could afford to be gentle. Harry thought that Draco had saved him the way he had promised to.

"A thousand spells," Draco whispered again, closing his eyes. "A thousand. You'll live forever, Harry. We both will."

Harry kissed him, not gently, but desperately, and he was nodding, his voice a little choked. "Forever," he agreed, and it was almost a strange sort of promise.

Promises had been broken around Draco every day since he was a child and he didn't know why this should be any different.

But he wanted it to be. He needed it to be.

Pushing Harry until the other boy lay on his back, Draco whispered, "We're immortal," against his throat and then kissed it. Salt had dried on Harry's skin from the ocean, and Draco could taste it on his tongue, and fancied that he could also taste the sugar from the grapes in the orchard that morning, though that was impossible. They'd washed the sugar off in the sea.

But it didn't matter, because Draco would drive it into Harry's mind, that he wasn't going to die, that he was protected by a thousand spells, that they were immortal. He'd tattoo it all over his body with his teeth and his tongue and then Harry wouldn't _dare_ leave him.

He started at his throat, licking the salt off and learning every inch of skin with his tongue, imprinting himself there, because if he was all over Harry and Harry was all over him, somehow that meant that nothing could pull them apart.

Flawed logic, but Draco didn't care.

While he kissed Harry's throat and bit it lightly, his hands were fumbling shakily with his shirt, pulling it off.

Harry's hand had come up and was resting on Draco's back, trembling a bit. His heart was fluttering wildly and he was panting. Lifting his head, Draco whispered, "Are you scared, Harry?"

Swallowing, Harry shook his head and then said quietly, "Should I be?"

Instead of answering, Draco kissed his collarbone, slipping lower, determined to taste every inch of exposed skin as if this would somehow claim Harry as his and save him.

Moments later, Draco had kissed his way to the waist of Harry's jeans, and there he paused, glancing up at Harry's face. He was lying with his head tilted back, eyes closed, breath light and fast. Draco pulled back, worried that Harry didn't want this, was too scared for this. But as soon as he moved away, Harry made a noise of protest in the back of his throat and his hand came up and stroked the back of Draco's head, fingers filtering his hair through them.

"Don't," he whispered. "'Sokay…"

Draco smiled a little and kissed his stomach, shaky hands fumbling with his trousers, and for a long, breathless moment, the only sound was Harry's light panting. And then his breathing hitched and his chest heaved a bit, his fingers twisting in Draco's hair. "Ohh," he breathed.

Draco took that as a good sign. It was like Harry's first gasp had sort of cracked the dam that had kept him so silent and still through all of this, and he twisted a bit, fingers pulling at Draco's hair.

"D-Draco?" he stammered.

"Yeah?" he asked huskily. He loved the way Harry jumped at the brush of his breath against his skin.

"What are… what are you _doing_?"

Rather than tell him, Draco just kept on doing it, and Harry soon forgot how to breathe, let alone form a coherent sentence.

"I…Oh…Draco…Umm…"

"Shh."

"Draco…"

"Harry, honestly. You're distracting me." He was laughing softly, breathily, and smacked Harry's stomach lightly. "Shh."

"God. But Draco, I —"

It was the last coherent thing he said for a while.

***

It was like losing his mind. Like something had blown up in his mind and he was waiting for all the pieces to fall back down again and they were taking their sweet time.

Draco was holding him, stroking his hair and talking to him, his voice soft and soothing, and warm with amusement. It would take too much effort for Harry to concentrate on what exactly he was saying, so Harry just let Draco's voice wash over him as he struggled to catch his breath.

Finally, though it took more effort than anything Harry could remember, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to Draco's. Then, he drew back and blinked.

"You're crying," he whispered shakily.

"I'm not."

"I can taste it."

"It's the sea salt." Draco rubbed the back of his hand over his face and Harry felt his stomach drop a little bit. He _was_ crying, no matter how Draco tried to deny it. He looked terrified, and Harry wondered tenderly how stupid Draco thought he was.

Feverish promises of thousands of dark spells? Please. But he'd play along, because he wasn't scared anymore. After all, he'd promised that he wouldn't be scared, wouldn't be angry, if only Draco came for him. And Draco had.

Draco, however, looked terrified, and Harry took his face in his hands and kissed him gently. His body felt lazy, slow, and very heavy, and he stretched a bit, his eyes fluttering. "Mmm," he breathed, kissing Draco again. Then he lowered his head on Draco's shoulder. "Everything's gonna be alright."

Though he didn't say anything, Draco's chest shuddered a bit, and Harry sighed, slipping his hand into Draco's. "Don't be scared," he murmured, a bit incoherent and not quite recovered from the strange almost painful (though in a hot, sweet sort of way) sensation of coming in Draco's mouth.

"I'm not scared."

"Liar."

"Harry, I lied, there aren't any —"

Harry kissed him firmly, muffling the words with his lips. He did not want to deal with that, he did not want to hear it. "C'mon," he said suddenly, pulling away.

"Where?"

"Shower. We're covered in salt."

"Shower," Draco repeated, his tone rather dull.

"Of course."

"You go first then. I'm sorta tired…"

Harry grinned, rolling his eyes, and tugging his hands. "Together."

"Excuse me?"

"'Malfoys do not shower with others'," Harry recited, his grin becoming even more impish. He tugged on Draco's hand.

It didn't take much convincing, really, and Harry was glad. He needed to distract Draco somehow, and it seemed only fair that he distract the other boy in nearly the same way he had been distracted moments before.

It was certainly the longest shower he'd ever had, though it seemed to be over too fast, with more splashing and giggling than any other he remembered. It was also the most erotic shower he'd ever taken, with the streaming water, the whimpering moans, the way Draco whispered his name, barely heard over the pounding water. It was strange, and very dreamlike, the details burned into his memory, every moan and whisper and kiss, and afterwards, when they lay together tangled up on the bed and still damp from the shower, Harry was so exhausted that he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

Harry was sleeping. Draco studied his face carefully in the moonlight spilling through the window, and then slipped from the bed. His clothes were scattered all over the floor and he dressed silently before leaving the room.

Knockturn Alley was not the cleanest of places by day, and by night, Draco decided, it was worse. Dirt, by day, sometimes glimmers like there are diamonds hidden beneath. In the darkness, it just shimmered with an oily sheen, like the rainbows skimming the surface of polluted waters.

The people there didn’t change, however. In Diagon Alley, there was a distinct difference between the people that wandered the streets in daylight, and those who skulked in the darkness. In Knockturn Alley, the ones who wandered in the darkness were the same who skulked in the daylight.

They wouldn’t harm him, however. Everyone in Knockturn Alley recognized him as a Malfoy, and would not risk the wrath of his father for all the world.

They did not speak to him, though a few nodded, their eyes skittering away from his. They did not tip their hats as they would have for his father, but Draco didn’t care. He couldn’t care less about the scum in the corners and doorways of the alley.

There were a few shops that did business only in the dead of night, shops Lucius had never taken Draco to. He knew they were there, however, and he could only hope that they could help him now.

He finally found the store he was looking for, a squat little building with a thick sort of grease on the window to keep out the light. Not that there was much light spilling onto this area of the alley.

The door creaked, announcing his presence, and Draco glanced around nervously, trying not to show it. After all, the people who frequent places like this would not respect anyone who showed fear.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he was greeted, by a shopkeeper he did not remember having seen before but who had evidently seen him about with his father. “Is your father about?”

“No,” Draco replied coldly. A Malfoy is never warm. “I wanted to inquire about a spell.”

There were places that sold dark spells, and this was one of them. It was an illegal practice but hard to trace, and a few places still made a go at it. They charged a lot, and only desperate people willing like paid the high fee, but Draco was desperate.

“What sort?” asked the shopkeeper.

“The sort that’ll keep someone alive who’s going to die.”

“How d’you know he’s going to die? Prophecy? Dream? It depends on that.”

Draco took a deep breath. He couldn’t give too much away, if they found out that it was Harry Potter he wanted to save, they’d laugh in his face. “He nearly died as a child and was saved by a spell his mother cast for him but she cast it when she was already dead so it’s gonna run out on his birthday.”

The shopkeeper looked wary. “Never heard of nothing like that,” he said.

“Right,” Draco said absently, thinking hard. “A spell to ward off death then.”

“What sort of death? Need to be specific.”

Frustrated, he snarled, “An immortality spell? Anything?”

Snickering, the shopkeeper replied, “If living forever was as easy as a single spell, everyone would do it.”

“If a mother sacrificed her life for her child, invoking an ancient spell that was incomplete, would there be anyway to finish the spell?” Draco asked, nearly panicking. “If… if someone else were to sacrifice themselves, something, would there be away to finish it?”

“We don’t deal with spells like that,” sneered the man. “Doesn’t sound like the Dark Arts are what you ought to be looking at.”

But Dumbledore had _searched_ all the other options and none of them were viable! Draco closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists. “Right,” he said, in a tightly controlled voice. “There’s nothing here for me then?”

“Nothing I’d help you with. Things like this, spells like that… they don’t happen often. Only once, that I can recall.” His eyes were narrowed, shrewd, and Draco knew he’d said too much. The man knew.

“Right,” he said again, backing out of the shop, never taking his eyes from the calculating look on the shopkeeper’s face.

There were other options, options that would cost more than his money, but Draco was getting desperate. He went farther down the alley, towards and old building with boarded up windows and concrete walls to keep out any hint of sunlight. His father had told him what it was once, long ago.

A ‘pleasure house’ of vampires for stupid mortals who liked flirting with the gothic and somehow sexy idea of vampirism and death.

He snorted even as he opened the door and stepped inside.

He’d never met a vampire before, and certainly wasn’t prepared for the pale, pristine creature that met him at the door. Male, and every hair was perfectly in place. Icy blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin, and a wicked sort of smile, Draco instantly felt almost bland-looking, and it was the first time he had ever felt that way. He didn’t much care for the feeling.

“Pretty,” the vampire cooed, running strange eyes over him. They reflected light like a cat’s.

“Umm, hello,” Draco replied, shifting uncomfortably. “I just had a question…”

“Nothing comes for free in here,” replied the vampire.

Draco licked his lips and said, after a pause, “Well, I only have one question. How much money would that cost?”

“Oh, honey,” purred the vampire. “We don’t take cash payments.”

“Then what —” he stopped talking abruptly because the vampire ran one cool finger down the side of his neck, tracing his vein. “Oh.”

“Only one question?” asked the vampire.

“Only one,” Draco whispered.

It grinned. “Won’t kill you, only one question. Won’t even hurt, if you don’t want it to.”

There was naked hunger in the vampire’s eyes, a type of hunger that was basic and instinctive and not at all human. The creature may have looked human, but the eyes gave it away, and Draco shivered. He was desperate, however. “I want it to hurt,” he said.

Penance, he supposed. He had failed Harry and that’s why he was here, brought low enough to beg favours from the undead. He deserved to burn and he deserved to hurt, because it was his fault that he was here.

He was taken into a small room to the side, and the vampire poured him some wine, pressing it into his hand with a sharp, animalistic smile. “Drink,” it hissed.

Draco did, quickly, wondering if it was to calm his nerves or make his blood somehow taste better. And then the vampire had one hand on the back of Draco’s neck to support it, the other tangled in his hair to hold him still, and two fangs were driven into his skin.

It hurt, more than just the puncturing of skin. The lips of the creature were slammed against his torn skin, sucking blood from the wounds, the tongue flicking restlessly against his flesh, drawing blood from his body, and it burned. Gray spots danced before his eyes and Draco’s lips quivered though he did not make a sound. He forgot how to scream, forgot how to move, forgot everything except what it felt like to have his life pulled from his body by a monster.

And then, rather dreamily, he wondered if all dying felt that painful and unnatural.

The vampire pulled away and licked its lips, before saying nonchalantly, “Ask your question then, my lovely boy.”

Draco’s legs were shaking, about to give out underneath him, and he swallowed heavily in an attempt to make things come into focus again. “I know this boy,” he said hazily, trying to collect his thoughts.

“I could taste him on you.”

Draco blinked. “Oh. Well. He’s going to die, on his birthday.”

“The Boy Who Lived.”

He blinked again. “What?”

Smiling almost gently, the vampire shrugged. “The walking dead have a different taste than those who are merely mortal. He is not supposed to be here.”

“He was supposed to die when he was a baby,” Draco acknowledged.

“He will die soon.”

Draco shook his head. “My question. I wanted to know if there was anything you could do to save him.”

Laughing, the vampire said, “There are some things the undead cannot even touch and the magic that protects your boy is more ancient even than we are. There is nothing we can do for him.”

And Draco, strangely, though he had been thinking before that even an undead Harry was better than none at all, was relieved. If he had let this creature have Harry, Harry wouldn’t have even be human any longer, and he wouldn’t for anything make him a monster like that. Better the victim of death than the cause.

He left the building in a dreamy, weak haze, and only barely made it back to the hotel.

Harry was up and waiting for him, pacing the room in a panic, and when Draco stumbled blindly through the door, he was there to catch him before his legs gave out from weakness.

Draco fell against his chest, unconscious, and missed when Harry smoothed his hair back, inspected the dried blood on his neck and the marks of healing puncture wounds, and sighed.

“Stupid boy,” he whispered, carrying Draco to the bed. “What have you done?”

He crawled under the covers and held Draco against his chest, running fingers through his hair, and holding him until dawn, when he finally fell asleep.

***

Draco woke up as if cold water had been dropped on him. One moment fast asleep, the next wide-eyed and tense, for a second, he could not place what exactly had woken him. Then he realized; Harry was not lying beside him.

“Harry!” he cried, sitting up.

The other boy was sitting at the end of the bed, legs pulled up to his chest, arms folded on top of them, head resting there. “I wasn’t sure you were gonna wake up,” he said quietly, almost reproachfully.

Draco swallowed, the terror at not finding Harry there slowly fading to a vague sense of wariness. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you left me last night and I was so scared and then you came back and you were bleeding and there were bite marks on your neck.”

Wincing, Draco sighed. “Oh. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Vampire, wasn’t it?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Harry. I just… I needed to…”

“I’ve never seen a real vampire before.” There was a hesitant sort of inquiry in his tone, and Draco slowly closed his eyes.

“You don’t want to,” he said quietly. “They’re monsters. Cold.”

“Like a snake?” Harry asked, voice soft with gentle amusement.

Draco opened his eyes and looked at him and smiled, though the effort was shaky. “Not quite,” he replied. “That distinction’s reserved for me.”

“I told you before,” Harry cried, but he was smiling. Draco wondered where he got the strength to smile. It was July 30th and the next day would be his birthday. His thoughts were disrupted, however, because Harry was there suddenly, eyes dark and eyelids lowered. His voice, when he spoke, was low and husky and teasing. “You’re not cold at all, Draco, you just pretend to be.”

“Not anymore,” Draco argued, a little breathless at how close Harry was suddenly, though they weren’t touching.

“Not anymore,” Harry agreed, grinning in a promising sort of way. Then he leaned forward and kissed him.

It was a playful kiss, more soft biting and teasing licks than anything, and the more Draco tried to capture Harry for any meaningful sort of kiss, the further back the other boy pulled, just out of reach. Finally, Draco pulled back, exasperated. Before he could say anything, however, Harry fell forward, knocking him backwards and kissing him hard, driving the breath from his lungs. Startled at the sudden switch from playfulness to a restrained sort of fury, Draco lay there, stunned, and let Harry kiss him. It was almost painful, and he reached up, hands running up and down Harry’s back, pulling him closer, letting him hurt him if that’s what he needed, because he didn’t have anything else to give except this. There was nothing else. Draco had promised to save him but there was nothing he could do.

Harry’s fingers had trailed up his arm, over his shoulder, and were now stroking over and over again the side of his neck, where the vampire had bitten. There was no blood there any longer, Harry must have cleaned it off, and Draco knew the marks would have faded, but still, Harry’s fingers circled over his skin as if they were still there. Almost like he was trying to rub them away.

“Mmm,” Harry grunted finally, pulling away and glaring down at Draco. “If you ever do that to me again, Draco, I swear…”

“You don’t understand,” Draco whispered.

“Just… just don’t ever do that again.” He kissed the side of his neck, very gently, right where the vampire had bitten. “Don’t leave me like that again. When I woke up and you were gone, I thought I’d go absolutely crazy.”

“I’m sorry.” Harry, of course, didn’t understand the reasons behind it. He thought Draco had saved him. “I’m so sorry, Harry. You have no idea how sorry I am,” he whimpered.

Harry lifted his head and smiled down at him very gently. “Everything’s going to be fine, Draco. No matter what, I promise you, it’ll be alright.”

“It will,” Draco lied, and then he smiled and kissed Harry softly. Anger gone now, Harry kissed him back sweetly.

***

The strangest thing, Harry decided later that day, as he and Draco sat together outside eating candy floss, was that, without this whole issue of his imminent death, he and Draco would never have had this. This candy floss in public parks and days spent together at the seashore, swims together in the lake, and all the hundreds of kisses. He would never have let Draco close enough to touch him, let alone kiss him, and even if Draco had somehow gotten to kiss him, Harry would have panicked because it was _Draco_ and he was a _boy_ and neither things seemed all that _natural_. But after Dumbledore had told him everything, about the spell and his birthday and all of it, nothing in the world had seemed all that natural. Which was, he decided, with a quiet sort of satisfaction, worth dying for. A few months loving Draco Malfoy was a consequence of his mother’s spell wearing out, and that was how he’d think of it from now until it was over.

Most people never experience the levels of happiness he had experienced in his last few months in their entire lives. He was lucky for that.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared. Harry was terrified. He had accepted the inevitable but he still could not sleep without nightmares for fear of it.

But Draco was the delicate one now, really. The nervous energy inside of him that made him jumpy and always moving… it was harder for him than it was for Harry. But that made sense, really. Because after this was over, Draco would be the one who had to keep going. Harry would end, his last days spent loving Draco, and Draco would go on, the rest of his days spent missing Harry. Or maybe he’d fall in love again. No one found their soul mate at fifteen, after all. Unless, of course, they were going to die at sixteen.

The pattern that had begun that first day, that day when all of this had started, were spiraling to a close now. Harry remembered thinking that not all patterns had a point, and he amended that now. They all had points; it was just sometimes difficult to see the conclusion of a pattern when you’re standing at the beginning.

His thoughts were interrupted when Draco leaned over and brushed his lips against Harry’s. People were staring, but Harry didn’t care. Draco tasted like candy floss and ice cream, and he grinned.

“What?”

“I asked you a question,” Draco said, sounding sulky. “You were all distant and daydreaming.”

“I was thinking!” Harry cried, laughing. It was easy to forget to be scared when he was with Draco. There was too much to feel, no room for fear.

“About what?”

“Patterns. You.” He grinned impishly and kissed the tip of Draco’s nose. “What did you ask?”

“I asked you what you wanted to do next.”

They were sitting under a tree in the summer sunshine in a park, hands and lips sticky from candy floss, and Harry glanced around, his smile turning gentle. “Stay here forever,” he said.

Draco was on his feet, pacing nervously. “We can’t, Harry, we have to —”

“Shh. C’mere,” Harry called, reaching out and taking Draco’s hand. It was sticky and so was his, and Harry tugged it gently until Draco was sitting next to him, leaning against the trunk of the willow tree.

“Your hand’s sticky,” Draco said, eyes skittishly avoiding Harry’s. He’d been avoiding any sort of conversation all day.

That same impish smile on his lips, Harry reached over and pressed his hand to Draco’s cheek, leaving a sticky imprint. “Sorry,” he lied. Draco just rolled his eyes and smiled a little.

“Are you alright, Harry?” he asked, his eyes scanning Harry’s face worriedly.

“Draco.”

“What?”

“Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“How can you say that?”

“A thousand dark spells, remember?”

Draco winced and Harry stroked his wrist soothingly. “Harry, I told you, there weren’t any —”

Biting his lip, Harry nodded. “I know. But you don’t think Sirius and Dumbledore wouldn’t have cast some protective charms or something by now?”

Draco looked suddenly hopeful, and Harry felt a small hint of guilt. “Really?”

“Of course,” he said. He didn’t tell Draco how Dumbledore had made him promise to stay at Privet Drive. That even if there was a cure, Harry wouldn’t have it because he’d decided that he’d rather spend three days with Draco with the certainty that he was going to die than three days with his relatives for what the barest hope of a cure.

He didn’t tell him that he’d made a promise to whatever god had been listening that day that he wouldn’t fight against his fate if only Draco would come for him. He didn’t say any of those things. Instead, he said gravely, “I feel different. I’m sure there’s a spell, I can feel it. It’s all around me and nothing can touch me. I’ll be fine, Draco, I swear it.”

“You promise?”

“Swear it on your father’s grave.”

“My father’s not dead.”

Harry grinned. “Well, if he were dead.”

“You sod,” Draco growled, but he was smiling now, and Harry was relieved. He tugged him closer and kissed him before shoving a chunk of candy floss into Draco’s mouth. Kissing him again as the sugared sweet melted on their tongues, Harry closed his eyes and sighed and tried to tell himself that he was not terrified.

***

It started to rain that afternoon, just gentle misty drops, and it sent people scurrying to their homes. Diagon Alley emptied until only those hurrying home from work remained. Draco knew that Harry liked the rain, so he didn’t complain too much as they sat on the side of a fountain, a soft hush all around, broken only by the whispering drops of mist.

“Everything looks different,” Harry said quietly, glancing around.

Draco tried to see what he was seeing, but it was just an empty street. “How?”

“Like we’re the only ones left in the whole world.”

For a moment, Draco let his eyes close and thought about what that would be like. To be alone in the world with Harry forever. He smiled a little, though his throat felt tight. It had felt tight all day, actually. Time was going too fast, and it seemed the harder he tried to slow it down, the faster it went.

“Calm down,” Harry whispered beside him, and Draco realized that his breathing had sped up as panic threatened.

“I’m alright,” he said. Harry studied his eyes doubtfully, and Draco knew he didn’t believe him. It was wrong, it wasn’t fair. That Draco should be so weak when Harry needed him. Draco reached out and touched his cheek, trailing his finger through the rain there. There was so much he needed to say and he didn’t know where to begin. “Aren’t you scared?” he asked.

“No,” Harry replied simply, but his eyes flickered away and his lips tightened at the lie.

“You’re a terrible liar, Harry.” Draco tilted his head and pushed his wet hair out of his eyes.

“I can’t be scared,” Harry argued.

Draco knew what it was like to feel as if he did not have the right to be scared. After all, Malfoys never showed fear. “You’ve got every right to be afraid,” he said quietly.

Glancing up, Harry slowly shook his head. “How would it look if I was afraid? If the Boy Who Lived could face Voldemort without fear but quaked at the mere idea of his own death?”

“You’re not the fucking Boy Who Lived,” Draco snarled, taking Harry’s hand. “You’re just Harry. _My_ Harry. None of the rest of it matters now, alright? Screw the heroic shit, and screw the Boy Who Lived nonsense. None of it means anything to me and I _know_ it’s nothing to you.”

“I don’t know what to be if I’m not the Boy Who Lived,” Harry whispered.

“Just be Harry. You were, before. Before you knew about all of this, this whole wizard business. Just be that Harry.”

“That Harry was a little boy locked under the stairs,” Harry said fiercely. “I’ve forgotten him. I never wanted to be him.”

Draco bit his lip carefully and studied Harry for a long moment. “It’s not so hard.”

“What isn’t?”

“Learning who you are without thinking about who you’re _supposed_ to be.”

“And you’re the resident expert on that, I suppose?”

Draco wasn’t put off by Harry’s hostile tone. He smiled and leaned forward, reciting, “A Malfoy Does Not Kiss Other Boys In Public.” His voice was very soft and he kissed Harry squarely on the lips before pulling back a tiny bit. “A Malfoy does not shower with others,” he continued, smile growing impish. “I already broke that one last night.”

“It’s different for you,” Harry whispered.

“How?”

“Without all your titles, you’ve still got something. You’ve still got an identity. I had my identity taken away when I was eleven and I was supplied with a new one. If I grow scared now, I’d be shattering that identity and then I’d have nothing.”

“So shatter it then. It isn’t you and I have no use for it. I’d rather have a shattered Harry than a Boy Who Lived.”

Harry swallowed and stared at the cobble stoned street, his fingers absently tracing a crack in the stone fountain. His hair was plastered to his forehead, water running down his face, and he looked pale and very young. When he spoke, his voice was husky, shaky. “What do you want from me? Do you _want_ me to be scared?”

“I don’t want any of this.”

His entire body tensed and Harry jerked his head up, eyes widening. “Well I’m fucking sorry,” he snarled. “You don’t _have_ to deal with this, Malfoy, if you’ve got somewhere else you’d rather be.”

Startled at this sudden flash of anger, Draco blinked and opened his mouth to speak. He didn’t get the chance to calm Harry down, however, because the other boy was on his feet and walking angrily away. This was a Harry he understood, however. This wasn’t Harry being a hero. This was Harry being terrified and covering it up with anger. Draco had been doing that his whole life.

He caught up to Harry a short distance away, reaching out and grabbing his shoulder. Though he flinched and made as if to pull away, Harry slowly turned. His eyes weren’t angry any longer, they were very wide and shining with tears.

“Don’t be stupid,” Draco scolded gently, wiping the rain and tears off Harry’s face. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“I think I asked for this,” Harry whimpered, he shivered a little, and Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders to keep him warm.

“Asked for what?” Draco whispered, guiding Harry back into the shelter of a doorway.

“All of this. I wanted it. I wanted to die. I was so sick and tired of everything and I didn’t want to wake up in the morning and all I did was whine about how sick I was of being me. And so my dream’s coming true. I won’t have to be me anymore tomorrow. I won’t have to be anything.” His words were stumbling from trembling lips.

Draco sat on the concrete step and pulled Harry down beside him, leaning back against the brick wall. Resting his head on Draco’s shoulder, Harry started shivering form cold, and Draco tightened his arms around him. “Stop that,” he chided, closing his eyes. “You didn’t wish this on yourself. Everyone feels like that sometimes. This isn’t your fault, it isn’t anyone’s fault.” He wanted to add that Harry wasn’t going to die so it didn’t matter. He wanted to promise that everything would be alright. But honestly, he didn’t know anymore. “But it’s alright to be scared.”

“You’re not scared,” Harry mumbled.

“How can I not be scared?” Draco scoffed. “I’m bloody terrified.”

“You’re not scared of anything, except your father, Voldemort, and the giant squid.”

“I’m not afraid of them anymore,” Draco admitted quietly. “My father’ll never get close enough to touch me again, and without him, Voldemort’ll never get close enough to me to scare me. And the squid… I rather like the squid.”

“What happened with your father?” Harry whispered, snuggling closer. The rain was slowing and Draco thought he could see the clouds starting to be burnt away by the sun.

“He was angry, about the detentions and that I kissed you, and he kept me locked in my room,” Draco replied distantly. “Until I tried breaking out through the window because I had to get to you. Then he had me locked in a room without windows, and then he had a house elf beat me with a belt.”

“Because of me?” Harry asked, lifting his head and looking horrified.

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco told him, kissing him gently. “I’m never going back.”

“Where will you go?”

_I’ll stay here with you forever_. He swallowed hard because he couldn’t say those words and he longed to. They were being completely honest with each other, however, and the words just wouldn’t come. “I don’t know,” he whispered instead.

“Stay here with me forever,” Harry said fiercely, and Draco’s arms tightened around him reflexively.

“Forever,” he promised.

***

By sunset, the clouds were gone and it was like the rain had never happened. People came out of their homes to go about their business, and Harry and Draco fled from them, seeking solitude.

They climbed a fire escape up onto the roof of Gringotts, the tallest building in Diagon Alley, from which they could see all of London spread out before them. Sunset was a shimmering mess of oranges and crimsons dripping down beneath the horizon, and Harry watched it with a bittersweet lump in his throat. It was the first sunset he could remember ever having watched.

“I used to think,” he said, as the last of the vibrant colour dripped beneath the London skyline, “that there was nothing in the world I would miss if I died.”

“And now?” Draco asked quietly. They were sitting on the side of Gringotts, their legs dangling over the edge.

“And now there’s so much I never even saw that I’m going to miss that it hurts to breathe,” Harry admitted, staring down at the ground far below.

The nervous energy that had kept Draco twitching all day had faded, as had Harry’s forced belief that he owed it to the world to be calm. Now, a weary sort of acceptance had fallen over them both. What would be would be and nothing they could do at this point would change it. Choices had been made, circumstances had led them to this, and they could only wait to see what the outcome was.

“I suppose I should be thankful,” he mused out loud.

“For what?”

“For you.” He shot him a small smile. “I would have died two months ago if not for you.”

Draco laughed softly. “From being locked in a broom closet? Or getting hit in the head with a bucket?”

Shrugging, Harry said, “And more than that. Thankful because…because…” he trailed off, frowning. “Do you think people can fall in love at fifteen?”

“Maybe not normal people,” Draco said after a short pause.

“What about us?”

Draco took his hand solemnly and said, “Has anyone ever considered us normal?”

He smiled a little. “No.”

“C’mere,” Draco said suddenly, slipping off the wall and moving back to lean against one of the building’s chimneys.

“Why?” Harry asked, even as he did as Draco had said.

“Because sitting on the edge that way was getting unnerving and it’s getting dark.”

“You’re afraid of heights and the dark?” Harry teased.

“A boy’s got to be afraid of something,” Draco replied, sitting against the chimney. “Why not heights and the dark?”

“You can’t just choose new fears because you’ve gotten over the old ones.” He sat beside Draco, leaning back and closing his eyes.

“I’ve never…” Draco trailed off, and Harry turned his head, looking at him solemnly.

“Never what?”

“Never mind.”

“No, what?”

There was a pause, and then, “Never been so dependent on anything as I am on you.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t think I needed… needed anything.”

Harry nodded and smiled a bit. “It’s funny, you spend your whole life searching for something to complete you and sometimes it’s standing right in front of you smirking like it owns the world and trying to drive you mad, and you don’t even realize it.”

“It?” Draco asked, sounding mildly offended.

“Oh, that was just a random example,” Harry said smoothly.

“Was it?” Draco’s hair had been soaked in the rain and now it had dried in soft wispy pieces, and Harry brushed them off his forehead and kissed him there.

It was strange, he decided, how he’d never had any sort of physical contact before and yet he could get used to this so fast. This being able to reach over and touch Draco whenever he wanted.

“It was,” he replied.

“I think you’re lying.”

Rather than reply, and purely in the interest of distracting him, Harry shoved his hands down the front of Draco’s trousers.

“Hey!” Draco yelped, body tensing up and eyes widening. “What are you doing?”

Harry was grinning, even as his other hand started fumbling with the zipper. “Shut up,” he said, kissing Draco lightly. “You talk too much and I’m sick of talking.”

Eyes dark, face pale, and lips twisted in a smirk, Harry straddled Draco, kissed him hard, all teeth and tongue and heat, jerking his trousers open and pushing both hands inside.

Draco’s mouth opened in surprise and Harry took advantage of the opportunity, shoving his tongue inside.

The one thing that had always bothered Harry about kissing Draco was the way the other boy never seemed to run out of breath. Draco seemed to hold this over Harry’s head as some badge of honor, that he knew the secret to breathing through kisses, and Harry was quite determined to make him forget that secret, to make him gasp and pant and pull away because he couldn’t breathe. Just because he cheated a bit with his hands inside Draco’s trousers, wrapping around him and stroking him teasingly… that hardly mattered. The ends justify the means, after all. Always.

It didn’t take that long, really, for Draco to fall back and break the kiss, panting raggedly, eyes squeezed shut.

“Harry,” he moaned, as Harry, smirking, slid lower to bit his neck. “That was sort of… sudden…”

“Mmm, no,” Harry sighed, pulling at the buttons of Draco’s shirt with his teeth. “I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

Draco smiled a bit, a desperate sort of smile, as his hips arched and he pressed himself into Harry’s hand. “You didn’t even know this existed,” he gasped, moaning a little.

Pausing, Harry glanced up at him and smiled slowly. “And you’re an expert at things like this?”

“I know more than you.” He didn’t sound all that knowledgeable. He sounded desperate and bothered and weak, and it was, Harry decided, the way he liked Draco best. Not arrogant or snotty or smirky, but wild and panting and honest.

“Liar,” Harry purred, grazing Draco’s throat with his teeth as he pushed his shirt off with one hand. “Lisa Turpin hardly counts as experience.”

“How… how do you know?” Draco tried to sneer, though it came out more like a squeak as Harry angled him so that he was lying on his back, Harry on top, one knee wedged between his legs, hand still warm around him, touching him and stroking him slowly, carefully, as if determined to memorize every inch of him.

“I bet she never even got your shirt off,” Harry whispered huskily, slipping lower so his teeth grazed Draco’s collar bone.

“Erm,” said Draco.

“Or got her hands—” he squeezed a little at that — “down your trousers.”

A tiny whimper. “Harry…”

Harry wasn’t listening. There was a sort of power here, one that he’d never experienced before, that was at once earthy and simple and somehow more complicated than he could quite understand. That didn’t mean he didn’t like it. There’s something to be said for the colour a Malfoy’s eyes change when they’re so desperate that they can’t think straight any longer.

His mouth was hovering over Draco’s stomach, which tensed and shuddered with Draco’s breathing. “I bet she never did this either,” he said silkily.

“Did what?” Draco whispered, hands clenching into fists. Harry’s eyes flew to his, dark with promise, and there was a wicked grin on his lips.

“This,” he said, angelically, before taking Draco into his mouth.

He’d never done anything like that before. In the shower the night before, he and Draco had done _things_, but nothing like this. The only bit of experience Harry had at all with anything like this was when Draco had done it to him the day before, and quite honestly, all Harry remembered of that was the rush of white heat and the blinding feeling of falling apart.

That didn’t matter much, however, because Draco had propped himself up on his elbows and he was watching Harry with a dark sort of hunger in his eyes, scarcely breathing or making a sound, and Harry really hated to disappoint.

It was different than he thought it would be. It was hotter and more awkward and not at all like licking a lolli as he might once thought (though of course he’d never given all that much thought to exactly how he might suck Draco Malfoy off on a rooftop. But _had_ he given it a moment’s thought, he might have decided it would be like eating sweets. It wasn’t.) Which wasn’t to say it was bad.

And it was certainly made all the more interesting when Harry’s eyes flickered up to Draco’s and held and he was able to watch the way the slightest move of his tongue or sliding of his mouth affected his face.

The way his lower lip was clamped between Draco’s teeth when Harry slid down so far that he nearly gagged and tears prickled his eyes. The way if he moved his tongue just right, Draco’s eyelids fluttered as if he longed to close them but couldn’t stand to look away. The way he would lick his lips and shove his hips upwards a bit if Harry made a purring sound in the back of his throat.

All very interesting, and Harry soon forgot the awkwardness of it, the strangeness of it, and went about trying to make Draco lose that fragile control he seemed to have over himself.

It didn’t take much, really, until Draco fell backwards with a choked moan, and, again, arched his back, lifting his hips and shoving himself into Harry’s mouth, nearly choking him.

Jerking away and sucking in a startled breath, Harry nearly lost his nerve. Draco’s low cry sounded so wistful that he gathered his courage and looked up at him again. “Tell me you love me,” he whispered, feeling brave enough to say that now only when Draco had been stripped off all his icy layers and was trembling beneath him.

“What?” Draco asked.

“Do you love me?” He licked him thoughtfully, almost coaxingly, and Draco whimpered.

“Please, Harry…”

Harry bit his lip, suddenly nervous. “Tell me that you love me.”

“I love you I love you I fucking love you, but honestly, Harry, now is not the time for this!” Draco cried, panting wildly.

Grinning, Harry giggled a bit, his hands moving to Draco’s hips in a vain attempt to hold him still as he took him into his mouth again.

Harry closed his eyes, conscious only of his hands on Draco’s hips, the taste of Draco in his mouth, the sounds Draco was making. Forever could have passed and he wouldn’t have noticed. And then, suddenly, Draco’s body tensed and he whimpered, a hand tangling in Harry’s hair.

Despite everything, Harry was incredibly surprised when Draco came in his mouth. He jerked away, coughing, scrubbing his mouth on the back of his hand and shooting the boy a faintly accusing glare.

His indignation faded, however, when Draco opened his eyes and smiled a little weakly. “Uhm,” he moaned, eyelids fluttering. Indignation was quickly replaced with satisfaction and a vague sense of having created something, if only the dark shadows in Draco’s eyes.

“I bet the Malfoys have a rule about that too, don’t they?” Harry asked.

Squinting and trying to follow the conversation, Draco mumbled intelligently, “Hmm?”

“About, you know… doing that… on a roof.”

Draco blinked and then sputtered, “We’re not complete sods, you know! We don’t have rules about _everything_.”

“So you aren’t allowed to kiss other boys in public but it’s perfectly acceptable to let them … let them… _you_ know… on a rooftop?”

“You can’t even _say_ it!” Draco cried, rolling his eyes. “How can you _do_ it if you can’t even say it?”

“It doesn’t matter, you seemed to like it!”

“Well, it wasn’t bad. For a beginner. You were wrong though, ‘bout me and Lisa.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She not only did what you did, she was better at it. Oh, yes, I shagged her good and proper.” Draco was grinning up at him like a cat.

“Liar!” Harry cried. “That’s bullshit, Draco Malfoy, you never _shagged_ her!”

“Jealous?” he asked silkily. “Maybe if you ask nicely, I’ll shag you good and proper too.”

“Boys can’t— I mean, didn’t we… what else…” Suddenly realizing how innocent and naïve he was appearing, Harry snapped his mouth shut, blushing furiously.

Draco looked quite incredulous. “You sheltered little boy,” he whispered, voice heavy with restrained laughter. “Of course boys can _shag_!”

“And again here you are pretending to be the expert,” Harry said sulkily, unwilling to admit that he had no idea how two boys might go about shagging.

“Hardly an expert, but I know it’s possible,” Draco said brightly. “I’ll have to show you, one of these days.”

One of these days. Harry stiffened and Draco paled a little, and then Harry said, his voice only slightly forced, “How do they —” Realization hit him then and his eyes widened. “Oh. _Oh_.”

Draco was laughing so hard now that he was practically choking, and Harry shouted, “Shut up, you!” It wasn’t his fault, after all, that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia did not discuss sex at all, let alone sex between two boys. Hermione and Ron hardly found the topic interesting, and Harry had just never thought about it before.

Still laughing, Draco was gasping for breath, his face flushed. Determined to shut him up, Harry tackled him, growling, and they wrestled for a bit, tickling each other, laughing and teasing, rolling about.

When they finally stopped, Draco, trousers undone and shirt long lost, was pinning Harry to the roof.

“Do you really love me?” Harry asked after a long pause, while they tried to catch their breath.

“Yes,” Draco said simply.

“Good.”

“And you love me?”

“Yeah.”

They grinned at each other, acknowledging the ridiculousness of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy wrestling and tickling each other on a rooftop and then confessing their love for each other.

Draco leaned down and pressed his lips to Harry’s, a kiss that tasted like melting sugar or honey, long and bittersweet.

His eyes fluttered weakly, a sudden wave of exhaustion washing over Harry, who’d been up most of the night before watching over Draco. “Sleepy,” he mumbled.

A guarded sort of tenderness lit in Draco’s eyes. “Sleep then,” he said softly, stroking Harry’s face. “I’ll watch over you.”

“I can’t sleep yet,” Harry argued, checking his watch. It was twenty to midnight.

“Why?”

“I have to wait until midnight at least. I always count down the last seconds until my birthday.”

“Always?”

“Yeah.”

“Right then. I’ll countdown with you.”

They smiled at each other, sleepy, tender smiles, and crawled back to the chimney. Leaning back against it, Draco opened his arms and Harry slid onto his lap, burying his face against his neck and sighing. Draco rested his chin on Harry’s head and closed his eyes.

They waited together, while the seconds slipped by, but it was too much for Harry, and he murmured in the back of his throat and snuggled closer, sighing and letting his eyes close.

A few minutes passed by, and Draco shivered a little, pulling Harry closer. “Are you sleeping?” he whispered.

For a long moment, Harry didn’t think he had the strength to reply. “Will you wake me when the sun’s up?” he asked finally, sleepily.

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

And then, with a soft sigh, Harry drifted off to sleep.

***

He wasn’t letting go, Draco decided. His arm was going numb, his back was cramping up, but he wouldn’t ever let go. Harry was sleeping, leaning against Draco, and Draco, for all the world, could not dream of letting go.

He checked his watch and whispered, “Nearly time, Harry,” though Harry didn’t stir. Draco counted down to his birthday alone, quietly, and when his watch showed midnight, he tightened his arms around Harry’s shoulders and buried his face in his hair.

“Happy birthday, Harry.”

Harry slept on, and after a cautious moment, Draco lifted his head, closing his eyes and listening carefully. He was still breathing, and the relief was sharp. But then, Harry had said that the spell would wear off at sunrise, and it was still dark. Still, it seemed a sort of victory, that it was officially July 31st and Harry was still breathing.

Hours passed, and Draco didn’t move. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be thinking about, feeling, doing with his hands. So he stayed perfectly still and didn’t think about anything, except the stars and the moon and the dark London skyline.

When it got to be too painful, he gently shifted Harry off of his lap and onto the roof. With that movement came a shuddering sort of energy, and Draco began prowling around the roof, thinking now more than ever before, out loud.

“He’s not going to die. What if he dies? He can’t die, I refuse to think all this has been for nothing…”

But then, it hadn’t been for nothing. If Harry left him and Draco had to spend the rest of his life alone, he couldn’t honestly say that this last little while hadn’t affected him. Hadn’t given him the courage to walk away from everything he’d been afraid of. He’d changed. No one could possibly go through something like this without being changed. Whether or not it lasted forever was negligible when he considered that. He was stronger than ever and brighter too, like wells of energy had been burst open inside of him. He’d been sheltered and scared before and now he was strong and felt like he could maybe even be brave, if the situation demanded it. After all, courage held by those with no other choice than to be brave is not a characteristic they can claim as their own but one they borrow when the situation demands it. And there was no one in the world Draco would rather borrow his courage from.

It was strange, very strange, that he should discover infinite sources of strength inside himself now, when he was feeling so weak, so helpless. When faced with insurmountable pain and terror, real terror at something that he couldn’t _believe_ would come to pass…

He remembered before this all had begun. Thinking about the difference between fear and worry. That you feared what you thought would come true and that worry was softer because you worried about things that couldn’t possibly happen. But Harry couldn’t possibly _die_. It just wasn’t bearable. And yet, Draco had never been so afraid.

There was a tinge of blue in the sky, and Draco cocked his head and watched it for a moment. The eastern horizon was slowly filling with colour. He glanced at Harry, pale, sleeping, and very still in the shadow of the chimney.

He took a hesitant step towards him, wanting to wake him, to touch him, to feel him breathe.

Two futures stretched ahead of him in the rising of the sun. One, full of burning funeral pyres and watching winter gardens bloom alone. The other, laughing and smiling and never ever letting go of Harry’s hand for fear that he’d slip away but knowing that, when the time came, he’d take Draco with him. Not yet, not yet. Not now.

“Harry?” he called softly, but Harry didn’t move. Biting his lip consideringly, Draco glanced once more at the rising sun. Birds were beginning to sing softly, and a misty sort of light was beginning to fall over the skyline.

***

Harry was dreaming, and in his dream, he was walking along a dirt road on a dark night. For the first little bit, he walked alone, though this did not surprise him. Soon enough, however, someone joined him, and together, they walked a short while in silence.

Curiosity overcame him and he turned to look at his companion. Hagrid stared back at him with dark, dark eyes that shone with tears. Feeling immeasurably better, Harry continued along the path with Hagrid silently beside him.

His eyes were fixed on a distant place where, just barely, he could make out the image of shadows, waiting for him.

“Are you scared?” asked his companion, and he turned again. Hagrid was gone, and now Albus Dumbledore walked beside him.

“No,” Dumbledore said. “What have I to fear?”

“Should _I_ be scared?” he asked, frowning.

“It would not be shameful if you were,” was the reply. Feeling slightly comforted by this, Harry’s step was a little lighter as they kept walking.

He was considering Dumbledore’s words, but by the time he thought up a reply, Dumbledore was gone, and Hermione and Ron had taken his place. Harry was glad of that. This journey wasn’t nearly as long and tiresome as he’d been worried it was going to be.

He gave his reply to them. “I wouldn’t be scared, normally. It’s just… I don’t know the way.”

Hermione smiled her motherly smile and, though she did not touch him, Harry felt as though he’d just been hugged. “Don’t worry, it’s not so far now, we’ll walk with you.”

“All the way?” he asked.

Ron looked vaguely troubled. “As far as we can,” he allowed.

Harry nodded and they walked on and then they were gone and Sirius was there. “Forgive me,” Harry whispered.

“You’ve done nothing for which you should be ashamed, Harry.” Sirius’ voice was very gentle.

“I have. I took it all for granted. I wanted this.” He gestured to the world around him.

“The point of life, Harry, like with any story, is not that you learn the moral before the lesson has been taught. You saw the right of things before the end, and that is all that matters. You saw the error of your ways. The world is beautiful, Harry, there is no denying that. But what awaits you is more beautiful still.”

Harry looked towards the waiting shadows, which had come now even closer. He believed he could make out the faces of his parents, and his mother’s was streaked with ashes and tears.

But still, he looked back the way he had come. “I’m not sure I have the strength to let go. I don’t want to be forgotten.”

Sirius was gone, and Harry did not turn to look at the speaker who took his place. He knew without looking who it was. “You never really will. You don’t think I’m going to let you go?”

“Sometimes you don’t get a choice,” Harry said faintly.

“And if you did have a choice?”

His mother and father waited ahead, waiting for him, and the road back was long. His muscles ached and his eyes burned, and Harry was so very, very tired. Still, without hesitation, he turned to Draco with a trembling smile and said, “I’d do anything to do it all over again, even if it ended this way still. Had I a choice, you know I would not go.”

Draco smiled a bit and nodded, but he’d stopped walking. “I cannot follow you further,” he said. “The rest of it is yours to walk alone.”

That next step was the hardest Harry ever took, and then he turned and glanced over his shoulder at Draco, who watched solemnly. “I don’t want to be forgotten,” he called softly.

“The stars will sing of it,” was the reply, in a whisper. “We’re immortal, you and I.”

And then, walking backwards because everything he was leaving behind was so beautiful that Harry could not bear to look away, he lifted one hand and waved once, solemnly. Then he turned and walked forward, sleepy, weak, and aching for everything he’d left behind.

Ahead of him, Lily’s tears washed away the ashes that painted her face.

***

The sun had risen, casting a fine golden spider’s web over the entire world, and it shimmered in beautiful splendor. Draco sat on the edge of the roof, his feet swinging, his fists rhythmically clenching and unclenching. Dawn had come. He’d tried to slow things down, but dawn had come.

He was broken. Parts of him had crumbled to dust and others washed away like sand in a tide, and he didn’t know who he was anymore or who he’d be after this day was over. Choices had to be made, choices _had_ been made, and everything that happened for the rest of his life would be a direct result of this day, this moment. He didn’t know who he was or what he had become, but the foundations were there now. Strong foundations.

Either way, he wondered if he’d be alright.

Funeral barges and winter wildflowers dancing in his eyes, he gathered his courage and crawled over to Harry’s side, smoothing his hair out of his eyes and shaking his shoulder gently.

“The sun’s up,” he called softly. “Harry?” his voice slipped an octave and trembled a little. “Harry.”

But Harry didn’t stir.


End file.
